Cultural Theory and Popular Culture

FIFTH EDITION
CULtUrAL
theoryANd
PoPULAr
CULtUre
AN INTRODUCTION
JohN storey

Cultural Theory and Popular Culture
An Introduction
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Cultural Theory and Popular Culture
An Introduction
Fifth edition
John Storey
University of Sunderland

Contents
Preface/Acknowledgements ix
Publisher’s acknowledgements xiii
1 What is popular culture? 1
Culture 1
Ideology 2
Popular culture 5
Popular culture as other 13
Further reading 14
2 The ‘culture and civilization’ tradition 17
Matthew Arnold 18
Leavisism 22
Mass culture in America: the post-war debate 28
The culture of other people 33
Further reading 35
3 Culturalism 37
Richard Hoggart: The Uses of Literacy 38
Raymond Williams: ‘The analysis of culture’ 44
E.P. Thompson: The Making of the English Working Class 49
Stuart Hall and Paddy Whannel: The Popular Arts 51
The Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies 57
Further reading 58
4 Marxisms 59
Classical Marxism 59
The Frankfurt School 62
Althusserianism 70
Hegemony 79
Post-Marxism and cultural studies 82
Further reading 88
5 Psychoanalysis 91
Freudian psychoanalysis 91
Lacanian psychoanalysis 101

vi
Contents
Cine-psychoanalysis 104
Slavoj yizek and Lacanian fantasy 107
Further reading 109
6 Structuralism and post-structuralism 111
Ferdinand de Saussure 111
Claude Lévi-Strauss, Will Wright and the American Western 114
Roland Barthes: Mythologies 118
Post-structuralism 126
Jacques Derrida 126
Discourse and power: Michel Foucault 128
The panoptic machine 131
Further reading 133
7 Gender and sexuality 135
Feminisms 135
Women at the cinema 136
Reading romance 140
Watching Dallas 147
Reading women’s magazines 153
Men’s studies and masculinities 159
Queer theory 160
Further reading 164
8 ‘Race’, racism and representation 167
‘Race’ and racism 167
The ideology of racism: its historical emergence 168
Orientalism 171
Anti-racism and cultural studies 179
Further reading 180
9 Postmodernism 181
The postmodern condition 181
Postmodernism in the 1960s 182
Jean-François Lyotard 184
Jean Baudrillard 186
Fredric Jameson 191
Postmodern pop music 197
Postmodern television 198
Postmodernism and the pluralism of value 201
The global postmodern 203
Convergence culture 210
Afterword 211
Further reading 211

Contents vii
10 The politics of the popular 213
A paradigm crisis in cultural studies? 213
The cultural field 216
The economic field 226
Post-Marxist cultural studies: hegemony revisited 232
The ideology of mass culture 234
Further reading 235
Notes 237
Bibliography 241
Index 253
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Preface/Acknowledgements
Preface to fifth edition
In writing the fifth edition I have revised, rewritten and edited throughout. I have also
added new material to most of the chapters (the book has grown from a first edition
of around 65,000 words to a fifth edition that is in excess of 114,000 words). The most
obvious addition is the new chapter ‘Race, racism and representation’ and the new
sections on the panoptic machine (Chapter 6) and convergence culture (Chapter 9).
I have also added more diagrams and illustrations.
The fifth edition is best read in conjunction with its companion volume, Cultural
Theory and Popular Culture: A Reader, fourth edition (Pearson, 2009).
Preface to fourth edition
In writing the fourth edition I have revised, rewritten and edited throughout. I have
also added new material to most of the chapters (the book has grown from a first edition
of around 65,000 words to a fourth edition that is well in excess of 100,000
words). The most obvious addition is the new chapter on psychoanalysis and the
sections on post-Marxism (Chapter 4) and the global postmodern (Chapter 8). I have
also added more diagrams and illustrations. Finally, I have changed the running order
of the chapters. The chapters are now chronological in terms of where each begins.
However, where each chapter ends may sometimes disrupt chronology. For example,
Marxism begins before post-structuralism, but where the discussion of Marxism ends is
more contemporary than where the discussion of post-structuralism ends. There seems
to be no obvious solution to this problem.
Preface to third edition
In writing the third edition I have sought to improve and to expand the material in the
first two editions of this book. To achieve this I have revised and I have rewritten much
more extensively than in the second edition. I have also added new material to most
of the chapters. This is most evident in the renamed, and reorganized, Chapter 6, where

x
Preface/Acknowledgements
I have added a new section on queer theory, and where I have extended the section on
reading women’s magazines. Perhaps the most visible change is the addition of illustrations,
and the inclusion of a list of websites useful to the student of cultural theory
and popular culture.
Preface to second edition
In writing the second edition I have sought to improve and to expand the material in
the first book. To achieve this I have revised and I have rewritten. More specifically, I
have added new sections on popular culture and the carnivalesque, postmodernism
and the pluralism of value. I have also extended five sections, neo-Gramscian cultural
studies, popular film, cine-psychoanalysis and cultural studies, feminism as reading,
postmodernism in the 1960s, the cultural field.
Preface to first edition
As the title of this book indicates, my subject is the relationship between cultural
theory and popular culture. But as the title also indicates, my study is intended as an
introduction to the subject. This has entailed the adoption of a particular approach. I
have not tried to write a history of the encounter between cultural theory and popular
culture. Instead, I have chosen to focus on the theoretical and methodological implications
and ramifications of specific moments in the history of the study of popular
culture. In short, I have tended to treat cultural theory / popular culture as a discursive
formation, and to focus less on historical provenance and more on how it functions
ideologically in the present. To avoid misunderstanding and misrepresentation, I have
allowed critics and theorists, when and where appropriate, to speak in their own
words. In doing this, I am in agreement with the view expressed by the American literary
historian Walter E. Houghton: ‘Attitudes are elusive. Try to define them and you
lose their essence, their special colour and tone. They have to be apprehended in their
concrete and living formulation.’ Moreover, rather than simply surveying the field, I
have tried through quotation and detailed commentary to give the student of popular
culture a ‘taste’ of the material. However, this book is not intended as a substitute for
reading first-hand the theorists and critics discussed here. And, although each chapter
ends with suggestions for further reading, these are intended to supplement the reading
of the primary texts discussed in the individual chapters (details of which are
located in the Notes at the end of the book).
Above all, the intention of this book is to provide an introduction to the academic
study of popular culture. As I have already indicated, I am under no illusion that this
is a fully adequate account, or the only possible way to map the conceptual landscape
that is the subject of this study. My hope is that this version of the relationship between

popular culture and cultural theory will encourage other students of popular culture to
begin their own mapping of the field.
Finally, I hope I have written a book that can offer something to both those familiar
with the subject and those to whom – as an academic subject at least – it is all very new.
Acknowledgements
Preface/Acknowledgements xi
I would like to thank students on the ‘Cultural Theory and Popular Culture’ modules
(1990–2008) at the University of Sunderland, with whom I have rehearsed many
of the ideas contained in this book. I would also like to thank colleagues in the
(University of Sunderland) Centre for Research in Media and Cultural Studies, and
friends at other institutions, for ideas and encouragement. I would also like to thank
Andrew Taylor of Pearson Education for giving me the opportunity to write a fifth edition.

Publisher’s acknowledgements
We are grateful to the following for permission to reproduce copyright material:
Photo 6.1 (Paris Match), with permission from Hachette Filipacchi Associés; the text in
Photo 6.2 from an advertisement recruiting teachers in Empire, for the Department for
Education and Skills (1991). Reproduced with permission of the Controller of HMSO;
Figure 9.1 (Daily Express headline) reproduced by permission of Express Newspapers;
Figure 10.1 (Queen’s Theatre playbill) with permission from The Arts Library,
Manchester Central Library.
The following are the author’s own: Photo 2.1 (day trip to Blackpool), Photo 4.3 (two
figures on a beach), Figures 6.1 and 6.2 (Rock-a-day Johnny), Photo 9.1 (Cocacolonization
of China), Figure 9.2 (the ‘foreign’), all © John Storey.
In some instances we have been unable to trace the owners of copyright material, and
we would appreciate any information that would enable us to do so.
We are grateful to all the reviewers who generously gave their comments on this new
edition.

1 What is popular
culture?
Before we consider in detail the different ways in which popular culture has been
defined and analysed, I want to outline some of the general features of the debate that
the study of popular culture has generated. It is not my intention to pre-empt the
specific findings and arguments that will be presented in the following chapters. Here
I simply wish to map out the general conceptual landscape of popular culture. This is,
in many ways, a daunting task. As Tony Bennett (1980) points out, ‘as it stands, the
concept of popular culture is virtually useless, a melting pot of confused and contradictory
meanings capable of misdirecting inquiry up any number of theoretical blind
alleys’ (18). Part of the difficulty stems from the implied otherness that is always absent/
present when we use the term ‘popular culture’. As we shall see in the chapters which
follow, popular culture is always defined, implicitly or explicitly, in contrast to other
conceptual categories: folk culture, mass culture, dominant culture, working-class culture,
etc. A full definition must always take this into account. Moreover, as we shall also
see, whichever conceptual category is deployed as popular culture’s absent other, it will
always powerfully affect the connotations brought into play when we use the term
‘popular culture’.
Therefore, to study popular culture we must first confront the difficulty posed by the
term itself. That is, ‘depending on how it is used, quite different areas of inquiry and
forms of theoretical definition and analytical focus are suggested’ (20). The main argument
that I suspect readers will take from this book is that popular culture is in effect
an empty conceptual category, one that can be filled in a wide variety of often conflicting
ways, depending on the context of use.
Culture
In order to define popular culture we first need to define the term ‘culture’. Raymond
Williams (1983) calls culture ‘one of the two or three most complicated words in the
English language’ (87). Williams suggests three broad definitions. First, culture can be
used to refer to ‘a general process of intellectual, spiritual and aesthetic development’
(90). We could, for example, speak about the cultural development of Western Europe

2
Chapter 1 What is popular culture?
and be referring only to intellectual, spiritual and aesthetic factors – great philosophers,
great artists and great poets. This would be a perfectly understandable formulation. A
second use of the word ‘culture’ might be to suggest ‘a particular way of life, whether
of a people, a period or a group’ (ibid.). Using this definition, if we speak of the cultural
development of Western Europe, we would have in mind not just intellectual and
aesthetic factors, but the development of, for example, literacy, holidays, sport, religious
festivals. Finally, Williams suggests that culture can be used to refer to ‘the works and
practices of intellectual and especially artistic activity’ (ibid.). In other words, culture
here means the texts and practices whose principal function is to signify, to produce or
to be the occasion for the production of meaning. Culture in this third definition is
synonymous with what structuralists and post-structuralists call ‘signifying practices’
(see Chapter 6). Using this definition, we would probably think of examples such as
poetry, the novel, ballet, opera, and fine art. To speak of popular culture usually means
to mobilize the second and third meanings of the word ‘culture’. The second meaning
– culture as a particular way of life – would allow us to speak of such practices as the
seaside holiday, the celebration of Christmas, and youth subcultures, as examples of
culture. These are usually referred to as lived cultures or practices. The third meaning –
culture as signifying practices – would allow us to speak of soap opera, pop music, and
comics, as examples of culture. These are usually referred to as texts. Few people would
imagine Williams’s first definition when thinking about popular culture.
Ideology
Before we turn to the different definitions of popular culture, there is another term we
have to think about: ideology. Ideology is a crucial concept in the study of popular culture.
Graeme Turner (1996) calls it ‘the most important conceptual category in cultural
studies’ (182). James Carey (1996) has even suggested that ‘British cultural studies
could be described just as easily and perhaps more accurately as ideological studies’
(65). Like culture, ideology has many competing meanings. An understanding of this
concept is often complicated by the fact that in much cultural analysis the concept is
used interchangeably with culture itself, and especially popular culture. The fact that
ideology has been used to refer to the same conceptual terrain as culture and popular
culture makes it an important term in any understanding of the nature of popular culture.
What follows is a brief discussion of just five of the many ways of understanding
ideology. We will consider only those meanings that have a bearing on the study of
popular culture.
First, ideology can refer to a systematic body of ideas articulated by a particular group
of people. For example, we could speak of ‘professional ideology’ to refer to the ideas
which inform the practices of particular professional groups. We could also speak of
the ‘ideology of the Labour Party’. Here we would be referring to the collection of political,
economic and social ideas that inform the aspirations and activities of the Party.

Ideology 3
A second definition suggests a certain masking, distortion, or concealment. Ideology
is used here to indicate how some texts and practices present distorted images of reality.
They produce what is sometimes called ‘false consciousness’. Such distortions, it is
argued, work in the interests of the powerful against the interests of the powerless.
Using this definition, we might speak of capitalist ideology. What would be intimated
by this usage would be the way in which ideology conceals the reality of domination
from those in power: the dominant class do not see themselves as exploiters or oppressors.
And, perhaps more importantly, the way in which ideology conceals the reality of
subordination from those who are powerless: the subordinate classes do not see themselves
as oppressed or exploited. This definition derives from certain assumptions
about the circumstances of the production of texts and practices. It is argued that they
are the superstructural ‘reflections’ or ‘expressions’ of the power relations of the economic
base of society. This is one of the fundamental assumptions of classical
Marxism. Here is Karl Marx’s (1976a) famous formulation:
In the social production of their existence men enter into definite, necessary relations,
which are independent of their will, namely, relations of production corresponding
to a determinate stage of development of their material forces of production.
The totality of these relations of production constitutes the economic structure of
society, the real foundation on which there arises a legal and political superstructure
and to which there correspond definite forms of social consciousness. The
mode of production of material life conditions the social, political and intellectual
life process in general (3).
What Marx is suggesting is that the way a society organizes the means of its economic
production will have a determining effect on the type of culture that society produces
or makes possible. The cultural products of this so-called base/superstructure
relationship are deemed ideological to the extent that, as a result of this relationship,
they implicitly or explicitly support the interests of dominant groups who, socially,
politically, economically and culturally, benefit from this particular economic organization
of society. In Chapter 4, we will consider the modifications made by Marx and
Frederick Engels themselves to this formulation, and the way in which subsequent
Marxists have further modified what has come to be regarded by many cultural critics
as a rather mechanistic account of what we might call the social relations of culture and
popular culture. However, having said this, it is nevertheless the case that
acceptance of the contention that the flow of causal traffic within society is
unequally structured, such that the economy, in a privileged way, influences political
and ideological relationships in ways that are not true in reverse, has usually
been held to constitute a ‘limit position’ for Marxism. Abandon this claim, it is
argued, and Marxism ceases to be Marxism (Bennett, 1982a: 81).
We can also use ideology in this general sense to refer to power relations outside
those of class. For instance, feminists speak of the power of patriarchal ideology, and

4
Chapter 1 What is popular culture?
how it operates to conceal, mask and distort gender relations in our society (see
Chapter 7). In Chapter 8 we will examine the ideology of racism.
A third definition of ideology (closely related to, and in some ways dependent on,
the second definition) uses the term to refer to ‘ideological forms’ (Marx, 1976a: 5).
This usage is intended to draw attention to the way in which texts (television fiction,
pop songs, novels, feature films, etc.) always present a particular image of the world.
This definition depends on a notion of society as conflictual rather than consensual,
structured around inequality, exploitation and oppression. Texts are said to take sides,
consciously or unconsciously, in this conflict. The German playwright Bertolt Brecht
(1978) summarizes the point: ‘Good or bad, a play always includes an image of the
world. . . . There is no play and no theatrical performance which does not in some way
affect the dispositions and conceptions of the audience. Art is never without consequences’
(150–1). Brecht’s point can be generalized to apply to all texts. Another way
of saying this would be simply to argue that all texts are ultimately political. That is,
they offer competing ideological significations of the way the world is or should be.
Popular culture is thus, as Hall (2009a) claims, a site where ‘collective social understandings
are created’: a terrain on which ‘the politics of signification’ are played out in
attempts to win people to particular ways of seeing the world (122–23).
A fourth definition of ideology is one associated with the early work of the French
cultural theorist Roland Barthes (discussed in more detail in Chapter 6). Barthes argues
that ideology (or ‘myth’ as Barthes himself calls it) operates mainly at the level of connotations,
the secondary, often unconscious meanings that texts and practices carry, or
can be made to carry. For example, a Conservative Party political broadcast transmitted
in 1990 ended with the word ‘socialism’ being transposed into red prison bars. What
was being suggested is that the socialism of the Labour Party is synonymous with
social, economic and political imprisonment. The broadcast was attempting to fix the
connotations of the word ‘socialism’. Moreover, it hoped to locate socialism in a binary
relationship in which it connoted unfreedom, whilst conservatism connoted freedom.
For Barthes, this would be a classic example of the operations of ideology, the attempt
to make universal and legitimate what is in fact partial and particular; an attempt
to pass off that which is cultural (i.e. humanly made) as something which is natural
(i.e. just existing). Similarly, it could be argued that in British society white, masculine,
heterosexual, middle class, are unmarked in the sense that they are the ‘normal’, the
‘natural’, the ‘universal’, from which other ways of being are an inferior variation on an
original. This is made clear in such formulations as a female pop singer, a black journalist,
a working-class writer, a gay comedian. In each instance the first term is used to
qualify the second as a deviation from the ‘universal’ categories of pop singer, journalist,
writer and comedian.
A fifth definition is one that was very influential in the 1970s and early 1980s. It
is the definition of ideology developed by the French Marxist philosopher Louis
Althusser. We shall discuss Althusser in more detail in Chapter 4. Here I will simply
outline some key points about one of his definitions of ideology. Althusser’s main contention
is to see ideology not simply as a body of ideas, but as a material practice. What
he means by this is that ideology is encountered in the practices of everyday life and

not simply in certain ideas about everyday life. Principally, what Althusser has in mind
is the way in which certain rituals and customs have the effect of binding us to the
social order: a social order that is marked by enormous inequalities of wealth, status
and power. Using this definition, we could describe the seaside holiday or the celebration
of Christmas as examples of ideological practices. This would point to the way in
which they offer pleasure and release from the usual demands of the social order, but
that, ultimately, they return us to our places in the social order, refreshed and ready to
tolerate our exploitation and oppression until the next official break comes along. In
this sense, ideology works to reproduce the social conditions and social relations necessary
for the economic conditions and economic relations of capitalism to continue.
So far we have briefly examined different ways of defining culture and ideology.
What should be clear by now is that culture and ideology do cover much the same conceptual
landscape. The main difference between them is that ideology brings a political
dimension to the shared terrain. In addition, the introduction of the concept of
ideology suggests that relations of power and politics inescapably mark the culture/
ideology landscape; it suggests that the study of popular culture amounts to something
more than a simple discussion of entertainment and leisure.
Popular culture
Popular culture 5
There are various ways to define popular culture. This book is of course in part about
that very process, about the different ways in which various critical approaches have
attempted to fix the meaning of popular culture. Therefore, all I intend to do for the
remainder of this chapter is to sketch out six definitions of popular culture that in their
different, general ways, inform the study of popular culture. But first a few words about
the term ‘popular’. Williams (1983) suggests four current meanings: ‘well liked by
many people’; ‘inferior kinds of work’; ‘work deliberately setting out to win favour with
the people’; ‘culture actually made by the people for themselves’ (237). Clearly, then,
any definition of popular culture will bring into play a complex combination of the different
meanings of the term ‘culture’ with the different meanings of the term ‘popular’.
The history of cultural theory’s engagement with popular culture is, therefore, a history
of the different ways in which the two terms have been connected by theoretical labour
within particular historical and social contexts.
An obvious starting point in any attempt to define popular culture is to say that
popular culture is simply culture that is widely favoured or well liked by many people.
And, undoubtedly, such a quantitative index would meet the approval of many people.
We could examine sales of books, sales of CDs and DVDs. We could also examine
attendance records at concerts, sporting events, and festivals. We could also scrutinize
market research figures on audience preferences for different television programmes.
Such counting would undoubtedly tell us a great deal. The difficulty might prove to be
that, paradoxically, it tells us too much. Unless we can agree on a figure over which

6
Chapter 1 What is popular culture?
something becomes popular culture, and below which it is just culture, we might find
that widely favoured or well liked by many people included so much as to be virtually
useless as a conceptual definition of popular culture. Despite this problem, what is
clear is that any definition of popular culture must include a quantitative dimension.
The popular of popular culture would seem to demand it. What is also clear, however,
is that on its own, a quantitative index is not enough to provide an adequate definition
of popular culture. Such counting would almost certainly include ‘the officially sanctioned
“high culture” which in terms of book and record sales and audience ratings for
television dramatisations of the classics, can justifiably claim to be “popular” in this
sense’ (Bennett, 1980: 20–1).
A second way of defining popular culture is to suggest that it is the culture that is left
over after we have decided what is high culture. Popular culture, in this definition, is
a residual category, there to accommodate texts and practices that fail to meet the
required standards to qualify as high culture. In other words, it is a definition of popular
culture as inferior culture. What the culture/popular culture test might include is a
range of value judgements on a particular text or practice. For example, we might want
to insist on formal complexity. In other words, to be real culture, it has to be difficult.
Being difficult thus ensures its exclusive status as high culture. Its very difficulty literally
excludes, an exclusion that guarantees the exclusivity of its audience. The French
sociologist Pierre Bourdieu argues that cultural distinctions of this kind are often used
to support class distinctions. Taste is a deeply ideological category: it functions as
a marker of ‘class’ (using the term in a double sense to mean both a social economic
category and the suggestion of a particular level of quality). For Bourdieu (1984), the
consumption of culture is ‘predisposed, consciously and deliberately or not, to fulfil a
social function of legitimating social differences’ (5). This will be discussed in more
detail in Chapters 9 and 10.
This definition of popular culture is often supported by claims that popular culture
is mass-produced commercial culture, whereas high culture is the result of an
individual act of creation. The latter, therefore, deserves only a moral and aesthetic
response; the former requires only a fleeting sociological inspection to unlock what
little it has to offer. Whatever the method deployed, those who wish to make the case
for the division between high and popular culture generally insist that the division
between the two is absolutely clear. Moreover, not only is this division clear, it is transhistorical
– fixed for all time. This latter point is usually insisted on, especially if the
division is dependent on supposed essential textual qualities. There are many problems
with this certainty. For example, William Shakespeare is now seen as the epitome
of high culture, yet as late as the nineteenth century his work was very much a part of
popular theatre. 1 The same point can also be made about Charles Dickens’s work.
Similarly, film noir can be seen to have crossed the border supposedly separating popular
and high culture: in other words, what started as popular cinema is now the preserve
of academics and film clubs. 2 One recent example of cultural traffic moving in the
other direction is Luciano Pavarotti’s recording of Puccini’s ‘Nessun Dorma’. Even the
most rigorous defenders of high culture would not want to exclude Pavarotti or Puccini
from its select enclave. But in 1990, Pavarotti managed to take ‘Nessun Dorma’ to

Popular culture 7
number one in the British charts. Such commercial success on any quantitative analysis
would make the composer, the performer and the aria, popular culture. 3 In fact,
one student I know actually complained about the way in which the aria had been supposedly
devalued by its commercial success. He claimed that he now found it embarrassing
to play the aria for fear that someone should think his musical taste was simply
the result of the aria being ‘The Official BBC Grandstand World Cup Theme’. Other students
laughed and mocked. But his complaint highlights something very significant
about the high/popular divide: the elitist investment that some put in its continuation.
On 30 July 1991, Pavarotti gave a free concert in London’s Hyde Park. About
250,000 people were expected, but because of heavy rain, the number who actually
attended was around 100,000. Two things about the event are of interest to a student
of popular culture. The first is the enormous popularity of the event. We could connect
this with the fact that Pavarotti’s previous two albums (Essential Pavarotti 1 and Essential
Pavarotti 2) had both topped the British album charts. His obvious popularity would
appear to call into question any clear division between high and popular culture.
Second, the extent of his popularity would appear to threaten the class exclusivity of a
high/popular divide. It is therefore interesting to note the way in which the event was
reported in the media. All the British tabloids carried news of the event on their front
pages. The Daily Mirror, for instance, had five pages devoted to the concert. What the
tabloid coverage reveals is a clear attempt to define the event for popular culture. The
Sun quoted a woman who said, ‘I can’t afford to go to posh opera houses with toffs and
fork out £100 a seat.’ The Daily Mirror ran an editorial in which it claimed that
Pavarotti’s performance ‘wasn’t for the rich’ but ‘for the thousands . . . who could never
normally afford a night with an operatic star’. When the event was reported on television
news programmes the following lunchtime, the tabloid coverage was included as
part of the general meaning of the event. Both the BBC’s One O’clock News and ITV’s
12.30 News, referred to the way in which the tabloids had covered the concert, and
moreover, the extent to which they had covered the concert. The old certainties of the
cultural landscape suddenly seemed in doubt. However, there was some attempt made
to reintroduce the old certainties: ‘some critics said that a park is no place for opera’
(One O’clock News); ‘some opera enthusiasts might think it all a bit vulgar’ (12.30
News). Although such comments invoked the spectre of high-culture exclusivity, they
seemed strangely at a loss to offer any purchase on the event. The apparently obvious
cultural division between high and popular culture no longer seemed so obvious. It
suddenly seemed that the cultural had been replaced by the economic, revealing a division
between ‘the rich’ and ‘the thousands’. It was the event’s very popularity that
forced the television news to confront, and ultimately to find wanting, old cultural
certainties. This can be partly illustrated by returning to the contradictory meaning
of the term ‘popular’. 4 On the one hand, something is said to be good because it is
popular. An example of this usage would be: it was a popular performance. Yet, on
the other hand, something is said to be bad for the very same reason. Consider the
binary oppositions in Table 1.1. This demonstrates quite clearly the way in which
popular and popular culture carries within its definitional field connotations of inferiority;
a second-best culture for those unable to understand, let alone appreciate, real

8
Chapter 1 What is popular culture?
Table 1.1 Popular culture as ‘inferior’ culture.
Popular press Quality press
Popular cinema Art cinema
Popular entertainment Art
culture – what Matthew Arnold refers to as ‘the best that has been thought and said in
the world’ (see Chapter 2). Hall (2009b) argues that what is important here is not the
fact that popular forms move up and down the ‘cultural escalator’; more significant are
‘the forces and relations which sustain the distinction, the difference . . . [the] institutions
and institutional processes . . . required to sustain each and to continually mark
the difference between them’ (514). This is principally the work of the education system
and its promotion of a selective tradition (see Chapter 3).
A third way of defining popular culture is as ‘mass culture’. This draws heavily on
the previous definition. The mass culture perspective will be discussed in some detail
in Chapter 2; therefore all I want to do here is to suggest the basic terms of this
definition. The first point that those who refer to popular culture as mass culture want
to establish is that popular culture is a hopelessly commercial culture. It is massproduced
for mass consumption. Its audience is a mass of non-discriminating consumers.
The culture itself is formulaic, manipulative (to the political right or left,
depending on who is doing the analysis). It is a culture that is consumed with brainnumbed
and brain-numbing passivity. But as John Fiske (1989a) points out, ‘between
80 and 90 per cent of new products fail despite extensive advertising . . . many films fail
to recover even their promotional costs at the box office’ (31). Simon Frith (1983: 147)
also points out that about 80 per cent of singles and albums lose money. Such statistics
should clearly call into question the notion of consumption as an automatic
and passive activity (see Chapters 7 and 10).
Those working within the mass culture perspective usually have in mind a previous
‘golden age’ when cultural matters were very different. This usually takes one of two
forms: a lost organic community or a lost folk culture. But as Fiske (1989a) points out,
‘In capitalist societies there is no so-called authentic folk culture against which to measure
the “inauthenticity” of mass culture, so bemoaning the loss of the authentic is a
fruitless exercise in romantic nostalgia’ (27). This also holds true for the ‘lost’ organic
community. The Frankfurt School, as we shall see in Chapter 4, locate the lost golden
age, not in the past, but in the future.
For some cultural critics working within the mass culture paradigm, mass culture is
not just an imposed and impoverished culture, it is in a clear identifiable sense an
imported American culture: ‘If popular culture in its modern form was invented in any
one place, it was . . . in the great cities of the United States, and above all in New York’
(Maltby, 1989: 11; my italics). The claim that popular culture is American culture has
a long history within the theoretical mapping of popular culture. It operates under the
term ‘Americanization’. Its central theme is that British culture has declined under the

Popular culture 9
homogenizing influence of American culture. There are two things we can say with
some confidence about the United States and popular culture. First, as Andrew Ross
(1989) has pointed out, ‘popular culture has been socially and institutionally central
in America for longer and in a more significant way than in Europe’ (7). Second,
although the availability of American culture worldwide is undoubted, how what is
available is consumed is at the very least contradictory (see Chapter 9). What is true is
that in the 1950s (one of the key periods of Americanization), for many young people
in Britain, American culture represented a force of liberation against the grey certainties
of British everyday life. What is also clear is that the fear of Americanization is
closely related to a distrust (regardless of national origin) of emerging forms of popular
culture. As with the mass culture perspective generally, there are political left and
political right versions of the argument. What are under threat are either the traditional
values of high culture, or the traditional way of life of a ‘tempted’ working class.
There is what we might call a benign version of the mass culture perspective. The
texts and practices of popular culture are seen as forms of public fantasy. Popular culture
is understood as a collective dream world. As Richard Maltby (1989) claims, popular
culture provides ‘escapism that is not an escape from or to anywhere, but an escape
of our utopian selves’ (14). In this sense, cultural practices such as Christmas and the
seaside holiday, it could be argued, function in much the same way as dreams: they
articulate, in a disguised form, collective (but repressed) wishes and desires. This is a
benign version of the mass culture critique because, as Maltby points out, ‘If it is the
crime of popular culture that it has taken our dreams and packaged them and sold
them back to us, it is also the achievement of popular culture that it has brought us
more and more varied dreams than we could otherwise ever have known’ (ibid.).
Structuralism, although not usually placed within the mass culture perspective, and
certainly not sharing its moralistic approach, nevertheless sees popular culture as a sort
of ideological machine which more or less effortlessly reproduces the prevailing structures
of power. Readers are seen as locked into specific ‘reading positions’. There is little
space for reader activity or textual contradiction. Part of post-structuralism’s critique of
structuralism is the opening up of a critical space in which such questions can be
addressed. Chapter 6 will consider these issues in some detail.
A fourth definition contends that popular culture is the culture that originates from
‘the people’. It takes issue with any approach that suggests that it is something imposed
on ‘the people’ from above. According to this definition, the term should only be used
to indicate an ‘authentic’ culture of ‘the people’. This is popular culture as folk culture:
a culture of the people for the people. As a definition of popular culture, it is ‘often
equated with a highly romanticised concept of working-class culture construed as the
major source of symbolic protest within contemporary capitalism’ (Bennett, 1980: 27).
One problem with this approach is the question of who qualifies for inclusion in the
category ‘the people’. Another problem with it is that it evades the ‘commercial’ nature
of much of the resources from which popular culture is made. No matter how much
we might insist on this definition, the fact remains that people do not spontaneously
produce culture from raw materials of their own making. Whatever popular culture is,
what is certain is that its raw materials are those which are commercially provided. This

10
Chapter 1 What is popular culture?
approach tends to avoid the full implications of this fact. Critical analysis of pop and
rock music is particularly replete with this kind of analysis of popular culture. At a conference
I once attended, a contribution from the floor suggested that Levi jeans would
never be able to use a song from The Jam to sell its products. The fact that they had
already used a song by The Clash would not shake this conviction. What underpinned
this conviction was a clear sense of cultural difference – television commercials for Levi
jeans are mass culture, the music of The Jam is popular culture defined as an oppositional
culture of ‘the people’. The only way the two could meet would be through The
Jam ‘selling out’. As this was not going to happen, Levi jeans would never use a song
by The Jam to sell its products. But this had already happened to The Clash, a band
with equally sound political credentials. This circular exchange stalled to a stop. The
cultural studies use of the concept of hegemony would have, at the very least, fuelled
further discussion (see Chapter 4).
A fifth definition of popular culture, then, is one that draws on the political analysis
of the Italian Marxist Antonio Gramsci, particularly on his development of the
concept of hegemony. Gramsci (2009) uses the term ‘hegemony’ to refer to the way
in which dominant groups in society, through a process of ‘intellectual and moral leadership’
(75), seek to win the consent of subordinate groups in society. This will be discussed
in some detail in Chapter 4. What I want to do here is to offer a general outline
of how cultural theorists have taken Gramsci’s political concept and used it to explain
the nature and politics of popular culture. Those using this approach see popular culture
as a site of struggle between the ‘resistance’ of subordinate groups and the forces
of ‘incorporation’ operating in the interests of dominant groups. Popular culture in this
usage is not the imposed culture of the mass culture theorists, nor is it an emerging
from below, spontaneously oppositional culture of ‘the people’ – it is a terrain of
exchange and negotiation between the two: a terrain, as already stated, marked by resistance
and incorporation. The texts and practices of popular culture move within what
Gramsci (1971) calls a ‘compromise equilibrium’ (161). The process is historical
(labelled popular culture one moment, and another kind of culture the next), but it is
also synchronic (moving between resistance and incorporation at any given historical
moment). For instance, the seaside holiday began as an aristocratic event and within
a hundred years it had become an example of popular culture. Film noir started as
despised popular cinema and within thirty years had become art cinema. In general
terms, those looking at popular culture from the perspective of hegemony theory tend
to see it as a terrain of ideological struggle between dominant and subordinate classes,
dominant and subordinate cultures. As Bennett (2009) explains,
The field of popular culture is structured by the attempt of the ruling class to win
hegemony and by forms of opposition to this endeavour. As such, it consists not
simply of an imposed mass culture that is coincident with dominant ideology, nor
simply of spontaneously oppositional cultures, but is rather an area of negotiation
between the two within which – in different particular types of popular culture –
dominant, subordinate and oppositional cultural and ideological values and elements
are ‘mixed’ in different permutations (96).

The compromise equilibrium of hegemony can also be employed to analyse different
types of conflict within and across popular culture. Bennett highlights class conflict,
but hegemony theory can also be used to explore and explain conflicts involving ethnicity,
‘race’, gender, generation, sexuality, disability, etc. – all are at different moments
engaged in forms of cultural struggle against the homogenizing forces of incorporation
of the official or dominant culture. The key concept in this use of hegemony theory,
especially in post-Marxist cultural studies (see Chapter 4), is the concept of ‘articulation’
(the word being employed in its double sense to mean both to express and to
make a temporary connection). Popular culture is marked by what Chantal Mouffe
(1981) calls ‘a process of disarticulation–articulation’ (231). The Conservative Party
political broadcast, discussed earlier, reveals this process in action. What was being
attempted was the disarticulation of socialism as a political movement concerned with
economic, social and political emancipation, in favour of its articulation as a political
movement concerned to impose restraints on individual freedom. Also, as we shall see
in Chapter 7, feminism has always recognized the importance of cultural struggle
within the contested landscape of popular culture. Feminist presses have published
science fiction, detective fiction and romance fiction. Such cultural interventions represent
an attempt to articulate popular genres for feminist politics. It is also possible,
using hegemony theory, to locate the struggle between resistance and incorporation
as taking place within and across individual popular texts and practices. Raymond
Williams (1980) suggests that we can identify different moments within a popular text
or practice – what he calls ‘dominant’, ‘emergent’ and ‘residual’ – each pulling the
text in a different direction. Thus a text is made up of a contradictory mix of different
cultural forces. How these elements are articulated will depend in part on the social circumstances
and historical conditions of production and consumption. Hall (1980a)
uses Williams’s insight to construct a theory of reading positions: ‘subordinate’,
‘dominant’, and ‘negotiated’. David Morley (1980) has modified the model to take into
account discourse and subjectivity: seeing reading as always an interaction between the
discourses of the text and the discourses of the reader.
There is another aspect of popular culture that is suggested by hegemony theory.
This is the claim that theories of popular culture are really theories about the constitution
of ‘the people’. Hall (2009b), for instance, argues that popular culture is a contested
site for political constructions of ‘the people’ and their relation to ‘the power
bloc’ (see Chapter 4):
‘the people’ refers neither to everyone nor to a single group within society but to
a variety of social groups which, although differing from one another in other
respects (their class position or the particular struggles in which they are most
immediately engaged), are distinguished from the economically, politically and
culturally powerful groups within society and are hence potentially capable of
being united – of being organised into ‘the people versus the power bloc’ – if their
separate struggles are connected (Bennett, 1986: 20).
This is of course to make popular culture a profoundly political concept.
Popular culture 11

12
Chapter 1 What is popular culture?
Popular culture is a site where the construction of everyday life may be examined.
The point of doing this is not only academic – that is, as an attempt to understand
a process or practice – it is also political, to examine the power relations that constitute
this form of everyday life and thus reveal the configurations of interests its
construction serves (Turner, 1996: 6).
In Chapter 10, I will consider John Fiske’s ‘semiotic’ use of Gramsci’s concept of
hegemony. Fiske argues, as does Paul Willis from a slightly different perspective (also
discussed in Chapter 10), that popular culture is what people make from the products
of the culture industries – mass culture is the repertoire, popular culture is what people
actively make from it, actually do with the commodities and commodified practices
they consume.
A sixth definition of popular culture is one informed by recent thinking around the
debate on postmodernism. This will be the subject of Chapter 9. All I want to do now
is to draw attention to some of the basic points in the debate about the relationship
between postmodernism and popular culture. The main point to insist on here is the
claim that postmodern culture is a culture that no longer recognizes the distinction
between high and popular culture. As we shall see, for some this is a reason to celebrate
an end to an elitism constructed on arbitrary distinctions of culture; for others it is a
reason to despair at the final victory of commerce over culture. An example of the supposed
interpenetration of commerce and culture (the postmodern blurring of the distinction
between ‘authentic’ and ‘commercial’ culture) can be found in the relationship
between television commercials and pop music. For example, there is a growing list of
artists who have had hit records as a result of their songs appearing in television commercials.
One of the questions this relationship raises is: ‘What is being sold: song or
product?’ I suppose the obvious answer is both. Moreover, it is now possible to buy
CDs that consist of the songs that have become successful, or have become successful
again, as a result of being used in advertisements. There is a wonderful circularity to
this: songs are used to sell products and the fact that they do this successfully is then
used to sell the songs. For those with little sympathy for either postmodernism or the
celebratory theorizing of some postmodernists, the real question is: ‘What is such a
relationship doing to culture?’ Those on the political left might worry about its effect
on the oppositional possibilities of popular culture. Those on the political right might
worry about what it is doing to the status of real culture. This has resulted in a sustained
debate in cultural studies. The significance of popular culture is central to this
debate. This, and other questions, will be explored in Chapter 9. The chapter will also
address, from the perspective of the student of popular culture, the question: ‘What is
postmodernism?’
Finally, what all these definitions have in common is the insistence that whatever
else popular culture is, it is definitely a culture that only emerged following industrialization
and urbanization. As Williams (1963) argues in the ‘Foreword’ to Culture and
Society, ‘The organising principle of this book is the discovery that the idea of culture,
and the word itself in its general modern uses, came into English thinking in the period
which we commonly describe as that of the Industrial Revolution’ (11). It is a

definition of culture and popular culture that depends on there being in place a capitalist
market economy. This of course makes Britain the first country to produce
popular culture defined in this historically restricted way. There are other ways to
define popular culture, which do not depend on this particular history or these particular
circumstances, but they are definitions that fall outside the range of the cultural
theorists and the cultural theory discussed in this book. The argument, which underpins
this particular periodization of popular culture, is that the experience of industrialization
and urbanization changed fundamentally the cultural relations within the
landscape of popular culture. Before industrialization and urbanization, Britain had
two cultures: a common culture which was shared, more or less, by all classes, and a
separate elite culture produced and consumed by the dominant classes in society (see
Burke, 1994; Storey, 2003). As a result of industrialization and urbanization, three
things happened, which together had the effect of redrawing the cultural map. First of
all, industrialization changed the relations between employees and employers. This
involved a shift from a relationship based on mutual obligation to one based solely on
the demands of what Thomas Carlyle calls the ‘cash nexus’ (quoted in Morris, 1979:
22). Second, urbanization produced a residential separation of classes. For the first
time in British history there were whole sections of towns and cities inhabited only by
working men and women. Third, the panic engendered by the French Revolution – the
fear that it might be imported into Britain – encouraged successive governments to
enact a variety of repressive measures aimed at defeating radicalism. Political radicalism
and trade unionism were not destroyed, but driven underground to organize
beyond the influence of middle-class interference and control. These three factors
combined to produce a cultural space outside of the paternalist considerations of
the earlier common culture. The result was the production of a cultural space for the
generation of a popular culture more or less outside the controlling influence of the
dominant classes. How this space was filled was a subject of some controversy for
the founding fathers of culturalism (see Chapter 3). Whatever we decide was its content,
the anxieties engendered by the new cultural space were directly responsible for the
emergence of the ‘culture and civilization’ approach to popular culture (see Chapter 2).
Popular culture as other
Popular culture as other 13
What should be clear by now is that the term ‘popular culture’ is not as definitionally
obvious as we might have first thought. A great deal of the difficulty arises from the
absent other which always haunts any definition we might use. It is never enough to
speak of popular culture; we have always to acknowledge that with which it is being
contrasted. And whichever of popular culture’s others we employ, mass culture, high
culture, working-class culture, folk culture, etc., it will carry into the definition of
popular culture a specific theoretical and political inflection. ‘There is’, as Bennett
(1982a) indicates, ‘no single or “correct” way of resolving these problems; only a series

14
Chapter 1 What is popular culture?
of different solutions which have different implications and effects’ (86). The main
purpose of this book is to chart the many problems encountered, and the many solutions
suggested, in cultural theory’s complex engagement with popular culture. As we
shall discover, there is a lot of ground between Arnold’s view of popular culture as
‘anarchy’ and Dick Hebdige’s (1988) claim that, ‘In the West popular culture is no
longer marginal, still less subterranean. Most of the time and for most people it simply
is culture.’ Or, as Geoffrey Nowell-Smith (1987) notes, ‘popular cultural forms have
moved so far towards centre stage in British cultural life that the separate existence of
a distinctive popular culture in an oppositional relation to high culture is now in question’
(80). This of course makes an understanding of the range of ways of theorizing
popular culture all the more important.
This book, then, is about the theorizing that has brought us to our present state of
thinking on popular culture. It is about how the changing terrain of popular culture
has been explored and mapped by different cultural theorists and different theoretical
approaches. It is upon their shoulders that we stand when we think critically about
popular culture. The aim of this book is to introduce readers to the different ways in
which popular culture has been analysed and the different popular cultures that have
been articulated as a result of the process of analysis. For it must be remembered that
popular culture is not a historically fixed set of popular texts and practices, nor is it a
historically fixed conceptual category. The object under theoretical scrutiny is both historically
variable, and always in part constructed by the very act of theoretical engagement.
This is further complicated by the fact that different theoretical perspectives have
tended to focus on particular areas of the popular cultural landscape. The most common
division is between the study of texts (popular fiction, television, pop music, etc.)
and lived cultures or practices (seaside holidays, youth subcultures, the celebration of
Christmas, etc.). The aim of this book, therefore, is to provide readers with a map of
the terrain to enable them to begin their own explorations, to begin their own mapping
of the main theoretical and political debates that have characterized the study of
popular culture.
Further reading
Storey, John (ed.), Cultural Theory and Popular Culture: A Reader, 4th edition, Harlow:
Pearson Education, 2009. This is the companion volume to this book. It contains
examples of most of the work discussed here. This book and the companion Reader
are supported by an interactive website (www.pearsoned.co.uk/storey). The website
has links to other useful sites and electronic resources.
Agger, Ben, Cultural Studies as Cultural Theory, London: Falmer Press, 1992. As the title
implies, this is a book about cultural studies written from a perspective sympathetic
to the Frankfurt School. It offers some useful commentary on popular culture, especially
Chapter 2: ‘Popular culture as serious business’.

Further reading 15
Allen, Robert C. (ed.), Channels of Discourse, Reassembled, London: Routledge, 1992.
Although this collection is specifically focused on television, it contains some excellent
essays of general interest to the student of popular culture.
Bennett, Tony, Colin Mercer and Janet Woollacott (eds), Popular Culture and Social
Relations, Milton Keynes: Open University Press, 1986. An interesting collection of
essays, covering both theory and analysis.
Brooker, Peter, A Concise Glossary of Cultural Theory, London: Edward Arnold, 1999. A
brilliant glossary of the key terms in cultural theory.
Day, Gary (ed.), Readings in Popular Culture, London: Macmillan, 1990. A mixed collection
of essays, some interesting and useful, others too unsure about how seriously
to take popular culture.
Du Gay, Paul, Stuart Hall, Linda Janes, Hugh Mackay and Keith Negus, Doing Cultural
Studies: The Story of the Sony Walkman, London: Sage, 1997. An excellent introduction
to some of the key issues in cultural studies. Certainly worth reading for the
explanation of ‘the circuit of culture’.
Fiske, John, Reading the Popular, London: Unwin Hyman, 1989. A collection of essays
analysing different examples of popular culture.
Fiske, John, Understanding Popular Culture, London: Unwin Hyman, 1989. A clear presentation
of his particular approach to the study of popular culture.
Goodall, Peter, High Culture, Popular Culture: The Long Debate, St Leonards: Allen &
Unwin, 1995. The book traces the debate between high and popular culture, with
particular, but not exclusive, reference to the Australian experience, from the eighteenth
century to the present day.
Milner, Andrew, Contemporary Cultural Studies, 2nd edn, London: UCL Press, 1994. A
useful introduction to contemporary cultural theory.
Mukerji, Chandra and Michael Schudson (eds), Rethinking Popular Culture, Berkeley:
University of California Press, 1991. A collection of essays, with an informed and
interesting introduction. The book is helpfully divided into sections on different
approaches to popular culture: historical, anthropological, sociological and cultural.
Naremore, James and Patrick Brantlinger, Modernity and Mass Culture, Bloomington
and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1991. A useful and interesting collection
of essays on cultural theory and popular culture.
Storey, John, Inventing Popular Culture, Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2003. An historical
account of the concept of popular culture.
Strinati, Dominic, An Introduction to Theories of Popular Culture, London: Routledge,
1995. A clear and comprehensive introduction to theories of popular culture.
Tolson, Andrew, Mediations: Text and Discourse in Media Studies, London: Edward
Arnold, 1996. An excellent introduction to the study of popular media culture.
Turner, Graeme, British Cultural Studies, 2nd edn, London: Routledge, 1996. Still the
best introduction to British cultural studies.
Walton, David, Introducing Cultural Studies: Learning Through Practice, London: Sage,
2008. Another excellent introduction to cultural studies: useful, informative and
funny.

2 The ‘culture and
civilization’ tradition
The popular culture of the majority has always been a concern of powerful minorities.
Those with political power have always thought it necessary to police the culture of
those without political power, reading it ‘symptomatically’ (see Chapter 6) for signs of
political unrest; reshaping it continually through patronage and direct intervention. In
the nineteenth century, however, there is a fundamental change in this relationship.
Those with power lose, for a crucial period, the means to control the culture of the subordinate
classes. When they begin to recover control, it is culture itself, and not culture
as a symptom or sign of something else, that becomes, really for the first time, the
actual focus of concern. As we noted at the end of Chapter 1, two factors are crucial to
an understanding of these changes: industrialization and urbanization. Together they
produce other changes that contribute to the making of a popular culture that marks a
decisive break with the cultural relationships of the past.
If we take early nineteenth-century Manchester as our example of the new industrial
urban civilization, certain points become clear. First of all, the town evolved clear lines
of class segregation; second, residential separation was compounded by the new work
relations of industrial capitalism. Third, on the basis of changes in living and working
relations, there developed cultural changes. Put very simply, the Manchester working
class was given space to develop an independent culture at some remove from the
direct intervention of the dominant classes. Industrialization and urbanization had
redrawn the cultural map. No longer was there a shared common culture, with an additional
culture of the powerful. Now, for the first time in history, there was a separate
culture of the subordinate classes of the urban and industrial centres. It was a culture
of two main sources: (i) a culture offered for profit by the new cultural entrepreneurs,
and (ii) a culture made by and for the political agitation of radical artisans, the
new urban working class and middle-class reformers, all described so well by E.P.
Thompson in The Making of the English Working Class (see Chapter 3). Each of these
developments in different ways threatened traditional notions of cultural cohesion and
social stability. One threatened to weaken authority through the commercial dismantling
of cultural cohesion; the other offered a direct challenge to all forms of political
and cultural authority.
These were not developments guaranteed to hearten those who feared for the continuation
of a social order based on power and privilege. Such developments, it was
argued, could only mean a weakening of social stability, a destabilizing of the social

18
Chapter 2 The ‘culture and civilization’ tradition
order. It marked the beginning of what Benjamin Disraeli would call the ‘two nations’
(Disraeli, 1980), and it eventually gave birth to the first political and cultural movement
of the new urban working class – Chartism. It is out of this context, and its
continuing aftermath, which the political study of popular culture first emerges.
Matthew Arnold
The study of popular culture in the modern age can be said to begin with the work of
Matthew Arnold. In some ways this is surprising as he had very little to say directly
about popular culture. Arnold’s significance is that he inaugurates a tradition, a particular
way of seeing popular culture, a particular way of placing popular culture within
the general field of culture. The tradition has come to be known as the ‘culture and
civilization’ tradition. My discussion of Arnold’s contribution to the study of popular
culture will focus mainly (but not exclusively) on Culture and Anarchy (1867–9), the
work that secured, and continues to sustain, his reputation as a cultural critic. Arnold
established a cultural agenda that remained dominant in debate from the 1860s until
the 1950s. His significance, therefore, lies not with any body of empirical work, but
with the enormous influence of his general perspective – the Arnoldian perspective –
on popular culture.
For Arnold (1960), culture begins by meaning two things. First and foremost, it is a
body of knowledge: in Arnold’s famous phrase, ‘the best that has been thought and
said in the world’ (6). Secondly, culture is concerned ‘to make reason and the will of
God prevail’ (42). It is in the ‘sweetness and light’ of the second claim that ‘the moral,
social, and beneficial character of culture becomes manifest’ (46). That is, ‘culture . . .
is a study of perfection . . . perfection which consists in becoming something rather
than in having something, in an inward condition of the mind and spirit, not in an
outward set of circumstances’ (48). In other words, culture is the endeavour to know
the best and to make this knowledge prevail for the good of all humankind. But how
is culture to be attained? According to Arnold, we shall attain it by ‘the disinterested
and active use of reading, reflection, and observation, in the endeavour to know the
best that can be known’ (179). Culture, therefore, no longer consists in two things, but
in three. Culture is now the means to know the best that has been thought and said, as
well as that body of knowledge and the application of that knowledge to the ‘inward
condition of the mind and spirit’ (31). There is, however, a fourth aspect to consider:
Arnold insists that culture seeks ‘to minister to the diseased spirit of our time’ (163).
This would appear to be an example of culture’s third aspect. However, we are quickly
told that culture will play its part ‘not so much by lending a hand to our friends and
countrymen in their actual operations for the removal of certain definite evils, but rather
in getting our countrymen to seek culture’ (163–4; my italics). This is Arnold’s fourth
and final definition: culture is the seeking of culture, what Arnold calls ‘cultivated inaction’
(163). For Arnold, then, culture is: (i) the ability to know what is best; (ii) what

Matthew Arnold 19
is best; (iii) the mental and spiritual application of what is best, and (iv) the pursuit of
what is best.
Popular culture is never actually defined. However, it becomes clear when reading
through Arnold’s work that the term ‘anarchy’ operates in part as a synonym for popular
culture. Specifically, anarchy/popular culture is used to refer to Arnold’s conception
of the supposedly disruptive nature of working-class lived culture: the political
dangers that he believes to be inevitably concomitant with the entry of the male urban
working class into formal politics in 1867. The upshot of this is that anarchy and
culture are for Arnold deeply political concepts. The social function of culture is to
police this disruptive presence: the ‘raw and uncultivated . . . masses’ (176); ‘the raw
and unkindled masses’ (69); ‘our masses . . . quite as raw and uncultivated as the
French’ (76); ‘those vast, miserable unmanageable masses of sunken people’ (193).
The problem is working-class lived culture: ‘The rough [i.e. a working-class political
protester] . . . asserting his personal liberty a little, going where he likes, assembling
where he likes, bawling as he likes, hustling as he likes’ (80–1). Again:
the working class . . . raw and half developed . . . long lain half hidden amidst its
poverty and squalor . . . now issuing from its hiding place to assert an
Englishman’s heaven born privilege of doing as he likes, and beginning to perplex
us by marching where it likes, meeting where it likes, bawling what it likes, breaking
what it likes (105; my italics).
The context of all this is the suffrage agitation of 1866–7. Arnold’s employment of
the phrase ‘beginning to perplex us’ is a clear indication of the class nature of his discourse.
His division of society into Barbarians (aristocracy), Philistines (middle class)
and Populace (working class) would seem at first sight to defuse the class nature of this
discourse. This seems to be supported by his claim that under all ‘our class divisions,
there is a common basis of human nature’ (ibid.). However, if we examine what
Arnold means by a common basis, we are forced to a different conclusion. If we imagine
the human race existing on an evolutionary continuum with itself at one end
and a common ancestor shared with the ape at the other, what Arnold seems to be
suggesting is that the aristocracy and middle class are further along the evolutionary
continuum than the working class. This is shown quite clearly in his example of the
common basis of our human nature. He claims that
every time that we snatch up a vehement opinion in ignorance and passion, every
time that we long to crush an adversary by sheer violence, every time that we are
envious, every time that we are brutal, every time that we adore mere power or success,
every time that we add our voice to swell a blind clamour against some
unpopular personage, every time that we trample savagely on the fallen [we have]
found in our own bosom the eternal spirit of the Populace (107).
According to Arnold, it takes only a little help from ‘circumstances’ to make this
‘eternal spirit’ triumph in both Barbarian and Philistine. Culture has two functions in

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Chapter 2 The ‘culture and civilization’ tradition
this scenario. First, it must carefully guide the aristocracy and the middle class from
such circumstances. Second, it must bring to the working class, the class in which this
so-called human nature is said to reside, ‘a much wanted principle . . . of authority, to
counteract the tendency to anarchy that seems to be threatening us’ (82). The principle
of authority, as we shall see, is to be found in a strong centralized State.
Why did Arnold think like this? The answer has a great deal to do with the historical
changes witnessed by the nineteenth century. When he recommends culture ‘as the
great help out of our present difficulties’ (6), it is these changes he has in mind. The
‘present difficulties’ have a double context. On the one hand, they are the immediate
‘problems’ raised by the granting of the franchise to the male urban working class. On
the other, they are recognition of a historical process that had been in play from at least
the eighteenth century (the development of industrial capitalism). Arnold believed
that the franchise had given power to men as yet uneducated for power. A working
class which has lost ‘the strong feudal habits of subordination and deference’ (76) is a
very dangerous working class. It is the function of education to restore a sense of subordination
and deference to the class. In short, education would bring to the working
class a ‘culture’ that would in turn remove the temptations of trade unionism, political
agitation and cheap entertainment. In short, culture would remove popular culture.
Against such ‘anarchy’, culture recommends the State: ‘We want an authority . . .
culture suggests the idea of the State’ (96). Two factors make the State necessary. First,
the decline of the aristocracy as a centre of authority; second, the rise of democracy.
Together they create a terrain favourable to anarchy. The solution is to occupy this terrain
with a mixture of culture and coercion. Arnold’s cultured State is to function to
control and curtail the social, economic and cultural aspirations of the working class
until the middle class is sufficiently cultured to take on this function itself. The State
will operate in two ways: (i) through coercion to ensure no more Hyde Park riots, and
(ii) through the instilling of the ‘sweetness and light’ of culture.
Culture and Anarchy informs its reader that ‘education is the road to culture’ (209).
It is, therefore, worth looking briefly at his vision of education. Arnold does not envisage
working-class, middle-class and aristocratic students all walking down the same
road to culture. For the aristocracy, education is to accustom it to decline, to banish it
as a class to history. For the working class, education is to civilize it for subordination,
deference and exploitation. Arnold saw working-class schools (primary and elementary)
as little more than outposts of civilization in a dark continent of workingclass
barbarism: ‘they civilize the neighbourhood where they are placed’ (1973: 39).
According to Arnold, working-class children had to be civilized before they could be
instructed. In a letter to his mother, written in 1862, he writes: ‘the State has an interest
in the primary school as a civilizing agent, even prior to its interest in it as an
instructing agent’ (1896: 187). It was culture’s task to accomplish this. For the middle
class, education was something quite different. Its essential function is to prepare
middle-class children for the power that is to be theirs. Its aim is to convert ‘a middle
class, narrow, ungenial, and unattractive [into] a cultured, liberalised, ennobled,
transformed middle class, [one to which the working class] may with joy direct its
aspirations’ (1954: 343).

Matthew Arnold 21
Arnold (1960) called his various proposals, quoting the Duke of Wellington, ‘a
revolution by due course of law’ (97). What it amounts to is a revolution from above,
a revolution to prevent popular revolution from below. It works on the principle that
a reform given is always better than a reform taken, forced or won. Popular demands
are met, but in such a way as to weaken claims for further demands. It is not that
Arnold did not desire a better society, one with less squalor, less poverty, less ignorance,
etc., but that a better society could never be envisaged as other than a society in
which the new urban middle class were ‘hegemonic’ (see Chapter 4).
Most of what I have said is a roundabout way of saying that the first grand theorist
of popular culture had in fact very little to say about popular culture, except, that is, to
say that it is symptomatic of a profound political disorder. Culture is not the main concern
of Arnold’s work; rather the main concern is social order, social authority, won
through cultural subordination and deference. Working-class culture is significant to
the extent that it signals evidence of social and cultural disorder and decline – a breakdown
in social and cultural authority. The fact that working-class culture exists at all is
evidence enough of decline and disorder. Working-class ‘anarchy’ is to be suppressed
by the harmonious influences of culture – ‘the best that has been thought and said in
the world’.
Many of Arnold’s ideas are derived from the Romantic critique of industrialism (see
Williams, 1963). One writer in particular seems especially relevant, Samuel Taylor
Coleridge. Coleridge (1972) distinguishes between ‘civilisation’ (‘a mixed good, if not
far more a corrupting influence’) and ‘cultivation’ (‘the harmonious development of
those qualities and faculties which characterise our humanity’) (33). To simplify,
Coleridge suggests that civilization refers to the nation as a whole; cultivation is the
property of a small minority, whom he calls the ‘clerisy’. It is the function of the cultivated
clerisy to guide the progress of civilization:
the objects and final intention of the whole order being these – preserve the stores,
and to guard the treasures, of past civilisation, and thus to bind the present to the
past; to perfect and add to the same, and thus to connect the present with the
future; but especially to diffuse through the whole community, and to every native
entitled to its laws and rights, that quantity and quality of knowledge which was
indispensable both for understanding of those rights, and for the performance of
the duties correspondent (34).
Arnold builds on Coleridge’s ideas. Instead of a clerisy, he writes of ‘aliens’ or ‘the
remnant’. But the purpose is essentially the same: the mobilization of culture to police
the unruly forces of mass society. According to Arnold, history shows that societies
have always been destroyed by ‘the moral failure of the unsound majority’ (1954: 640).
Such a reading of history is hardly likely to inspire much confidence in democracy – let
alone in popular culture. Arnold’s vision is based on a curious paradox; the men and
women of culture know the best that has been thought and said, but for whom are they
preserving these treasures when the majority is unsound and has always been, and always
will be, unsound? The inescapable answer seems to be: for themselves, a self-perpetuating

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Chapter 2 The ‘culture and civilization’ tradition
cultural elite. All that is required from the rest of us is to recognize our cultural difference
and acknowledge our cultural deference. Arnold is clear on this point:
The mass of mankind will never have any ardent zeal for seeing things as they are;
very inadequate ideas will always satisfy them. On these inadequate ideas reposes,
and must repose, the general practice of the world. That is as much as saying that
whoever sets himself to see things as they are will find himself one of a very small
circle; but it is only by this small circle resolutely doing its own work that adequate
ideas will ever get current at all (364–5).
And again,
The highly instructed few, and not the scantily instructed many, will ever be the
organ to the human race of knowledge and truth. Knowledge and truth in the full
sense of the words, are not attainable by the great mass of the human race at all
(Arnold, 1960–77: 591).
These are very revealing statements. If the mass of humankind is to be always satisfied
with inadequate ideas, never able to attain truth and knowledge, for whom are the
small circle working? And what of the adequate ideas they will make current – current
for whom? For other small circles of elites? Arnold’s small circle would appear to be little
more than a self-perpetuating intellectual elite. If they are never to engage in practical
politics, and never to have any real influence on the mass of humankind, what is the
purpose of all the grand humanistic claims to be found scattered throughout Arnold’s
work? It would appear that Arnold has been ensnared by his own elitism: and the
working class are destined to remain to wallow in ‘their beer, their gin, and their fun’
(1954: 591). However, Arnold does not so much reject practical politics, as leave them
in the safe hands of established authority. Therefore, the only politics that are being
rejected are the politics of protest, the politics of opposition. This is a very stale defence
of the dominant order. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, his influence has been
enormous in that the Arnoldian perspective virtually mapped out the way of thinking
about popular culture and cultural politics that dominated the field until the late l950s.
Leavisism
For Matthew Arnold it was in some ways less difficult. I am thinking of the so
much more desperate plight of culture today (Leavis, 2009: 12).
The influence of Arnold on F.R. Leavis is there for all to see. Leavis takes Arnold’s cultural
politics and applies them to the supposed ‘cultural crisis’ of the 1930s. According
to Leavis and the Leavisites, the twentieth century is marked by an increasing cultural

Leavisism 23
decline. What had been identified by Arnold as a feature of the nineteenth century, it
is argued, had continued and been compounded in the twentieth: that is, the increasing
spread of a culture of ‘standardisation and levelling down’ (Leavis and Thompson,
1977: 3). It is against this process and its results that ‘the citizen . . . must be trained to
discriminate and to resist’ (5).
The work of Leavisism spans a period of some forty years. However, the Leavisite
attitude to popular culture was formed in the early 1930s with the publication of three
texts: Mass Civilisation and Minority Culture, by F.R. Leavis, Fiction and the Reading Public,
by Q.D. Leavis and Culture and Environment, by F.R. Leavis and Denys Thompson.
Together these form the basis of the Leavisite response to popular culture.
Leavisism is based on the assumption that ‘culture has always been in minority
keeping’ (Leavis and Thompson, 1977: 3):
Upon the minority depends our power of profiting by the finest human experience
of the past; they keep alive the subtlest and most perishable parts of tradition.
Upon them depend the implicit standards that order the finer living of an age, the
sense that this is worth more than that, this rather than that is the direction in
which to go, that the centre is here rather than there (5).
What has changed is the status of this minority. No longer can it command cultural
deference, no longer is its cultural authority unchallenged. Q.D. Leavis (1978) refers to
a situation in which ‘the minority, who had hitherto set the standard of taste without
any serious challenge’ have experienced a ‘collapse of authority’ (185, 187). Just
as Arnold regretted the passing of ‘the strong feudal habits of subordination and
deference’ (see previous section), Q.D. Leavis is nostalgic for a time when the masses
exhibited an ‘unquestioning assent to authority’ (191). 5 She quotes Edmund Gosse to
confirm the seriousness of the situation:
One danger which I have long foreseen from the spread of the democratic sentiment,
is that of the traditions of literary taste, the canons of literature, being
reversed with success by a popular vote. Up to the present time, in all parts of the
world, the masses of uneducated or semieducated persons, who form the vast
majority of readers, though they cannot and do not appreciate the classics of their
race, have been content to acknowledge their traditional supremacy. Of late there
have seemed to me to be certain signs, especially in America, of a revolt of the mob
against our literary masters. . . . If literature is to be judged by a plebiscite and if the
plebs recognises its power, it will certainly by degrees cease to support reputations
which give it no pleasure and which it cannot comprehend. The revolution against
taste, once begun, will land us in irreparable chaos (190).
According to Leavis and Thompson, what Gosse had only feared had now come to pass:
culture has always been in minority keeping. But the minority now is made
conscious, not merely of an uncongenial, but of a hostile environment. . . .

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Chapter 2 The ‘culture and civilization’ tradition
‘Civilisation’ and ‘culture’ are coming to be antithetical terms. It is not merely that
the power and the sense of authority are now divorced from culture, but that some
of the most disinterested solicitude for civilisation is apt to be, consciously or
unconsciously, inimical to culture (1977: 26).
Mass civilization and its mass culture pose a subversive front, threatening ‘to land
us in irreparable chaos’. It is against this threat that Leavisism writes its manifestos, and
proposes ‘to introduce into schools a training in resistance [to mass culture]’ (Leavis,
1933: 188–9); and outside schools, to promote a ‘conscious and directed effort . . . [to]
take the form of resistance by an armed and active minority’ (Q.D. Leavis, 1978: 270).
The threat of democracy in matters both cultural and political is a terrifying thought
for Leavisism. Moreover, according to Q.D. Leavis, ‘The people with power no longer
represent intellectual authority and culture’ (191). Like Arnold, she sees the collapse of
traditional authority coming at the same time as the rise of mass democracy. Together
they squeeze the cultured minority and produce a terrain favourable for ‘anarchy’.
Leavisism isolates certain key aspects of mass culture for special discussion. Popular
fiction, for example, is condemned for offering addictive forms of ‘compensation’ and
‘distraction’:
This form of compensation . . . is the very reverse of recreation, in that it tends, not
to strengthen and refresh the addict for living, but to increase his unfitness by
habituating him to weak evasions, to the refusal to face reality at all (Leavis and
Thompson, 1977: 100).
Q.D. Leavis (1978) refers to such reading as ‘a drug addiction to fiction’ (152), and
for those readers of romantic fiction it can lead to ‘a habit of fantasying [which] will
lead to maladjustment in actual life’ (54). Self-abuse is one thing, but there is worse:
their addiction ‘helps to make a social atmosphere unfavourable to the aspirations
of the minority. They actually get in the way of genuine feeling and responsible thinking’
(74). For those not addicted to popular fiction, there is always the danger of
cinema. Its popularity makes it a very dangerous source of pleasure indeed: ‘they
[films] involve surrender, under conditions of hypnotic receptivity, to the cheapest
emotional appeals, appeals the more insidious because they are associated with a
compellingly vivid illusion of actual life’ (Leavis, 2009: 14). For Q.D. Leavis (1978),
Hollywood films are ‘largely masturbatory’ (165). Although the popular press is
described as ‘the most powerful and pervasive de-educator of the public mind’ (Leavis
and Thompson, 1977: 138), and radio is claimed to be putting an end to critical
thought (Leavis, 2009), it is for advertising, with its ‘unremitting, pervasive, masturbatory
manipulations’ (Leavis and Thompson, 1977: 139), that Leavisism saves its most
condemnatory tone.
Advertising, and how it is consumed, is Leavisism’s main symptom of cultural
decline. To understand why, we must understand Leavisism’s attitude to language. In
Culture and Environment, Leavis and Thompson state: ‘it should be brought home to
learners that this debasement of language is not merely a matter of words; it is a

debasement of emotional life, and the quality of living’ (1977: 4). Advertising, therefore,
is not just blamed for debasing the language, but condemned for debasing the
emotional life of the whole language community, reducing ‘the standard of living’.
They provide examples for analysis (mostly written by F.R. Leavis himself). The questions
they pose are very revealing of Leavisism’s general attitude. Here is a typical example,
an advert for ‘Two Quakers’ tobacco:
THE TOBACCO OF TYPICAL TWIST
‘Yes, it’s the best I’ve ever smoked. But it’s deuced expensive.’ ‘What’s the tuppence
extra? And anyway, you get it back an’ more. Burns clean and slow that’s
the typical twist, gives it the odd look. Cute scientific dodge. You see, they experimented.
. . .’ ‘Oh! cut the cackle, and give us another fill. You talk like an advertisement.’
Thereafter peace and a pipe of Two Quakers.
They then suggest the following questions for school students in the fifth and sixth
forms:
1 Describe the type of person represented.
2 How are you expected to feel towards him?
3 What do you think his attitude would be towards us? How would he behave
in situations where mob passions run high? (16–17)
Two things are remarkable about these questions. First of all, the connection that is
made between the advertisement and so-called mob passions. This is an unusual question,
even for students of cultural studies. Second, notice the exclusive ‘we’; and note
also how the pronoun attempts to construct membership of a small educated elite.
Other questions operate in much the same way. Here are a few examples:
Describe the kind of reader this passage would please, and say why it would
please him. What kind of person can you imagine responding to such an appeal
as this last? What acquaintance would you expect them to have of Shakespeare’s
work and what capacity for appreciating it? (40).
Pupils can be asked to recall their own observations of the kind of people they
may have seen visiting ‘shrines’ (51).
In the light of the ‘Gresham Law’, what kind of influence do you expect the
cinema to have on general taste and mentality? (114).
What kind of standards are implied here? What would you judge to be the quality
of the ‘literature’ he reads, and the reading he devotes to it? (119).
Why do we wince at the mentality that uses this idiom? (121).
[After describing the cinema as ‘cheapening, debasing, distorting’]: Develop the
discussion of the educational value of cinema as suggested here (144).
Leavisism 25

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Chapter 2 The ‘culture and civilization’ tradition
It is difficult to see how such questions, rather than encouraging ‘discrimination
and resistance’, would invite anything other than a critically debilitating and selfconfirming
snobbery.
In a temporary escape from the ‘irreparable chaos’ of the present, Leavisism looks back
longingly to a cultural golden age, a mythic rural past, when there existed a shared culture
uncorrupted by commercial interests. The Elizabethan period of Shakespeare’s theatre
is often cited as a time of cultural coherence before the cultural disintegration of
the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. F.R. Leavis (1933) writes of Shakespeare belonging
‘to a genuinely national culture, to a community in which it was possible for the
theatre to appeal to the cultivated and the populace at the same time’ (216). Q.D.
Leavis (1978), in Fiction and the Reading Public, has charted this supposed decline. Her
account of the organic relations between populace and cultivated are very revealing: ‘the
masses were receiving their amusement from above. . . . They had to take the same amusements
as their betters. . . . Happily, they had no choice’ (85). According to Q.D. Leavis,
the spectator of Elizabethan drama, though he might not be able to follow the
‘thought’ minutely in the great tragedies, was getting his amusement from the
mind and sensibility that produced those passages, from an artist and not from
one of his own class. There was then no such complete separation as we have . . .
between the life of the cultivated and the life of the generality (264).
What is interesting about their account of the past is what it reveals about their ideal
future. The golden age was not just marked by cultural coherence, but happily for the
Leavisites, a cultural coherence based on authoritarian and hierarchical principles. It
was a common culture that gave intellectual stimulation at one end, and affective pleasure
at the other. This was a mythic world in which everyone knew their place, knew
their station in life. F.R. Leavis (1984) is insistent ‘that there was in the seventeenth
century, a real culture of the people ...a rich traditional culture ...a positive culture
which has disappeared’ (188–9). Most of this culture was, according to Leavisism,
destroyed by the changes brought about by the Industrial Revolution. The last remnants
of the organic community, however, could still be found in rural communities in
nineteenth-century England. He cites the works of George Bourne, Change in the Village
and The Wheelwright’s Shop, as evidence of this. 6 In the opening pages of Culture and
Environment, F.R. Leavis and Thompson (1977) offer a reminder of what had been lost:
What we have lost is the organic community with the living culture it embodied.
Folk songs, folk dances, Cotswold cottages and handicraft products are signs and
expressions of something more: an art of life, a way of living, ordered and patterned,
involving social arts, codes of intercourse and a responsive adjustment,
growing out of immemorial experience, to the natural environment and the
rhythm of the year (1–2).
They also claim that the quality of work has also deteriorated with the loss of the
organic community. The growing importance placed on leisure is seen as a sign of this

Leavisism 27
loss. Whereas in the past a worker lived in his or her work, he or she now works in
order to live outside his or her work. But as a result of industrialization, the experience
of work has deteriorated to such an extent that workers are actually ‘incapacitated by
their work’ (69). Therefore, instead of recreation (re-creating what is lost in work),
leisure provides workers with only ‘decreation’ (a compounding of the loss experienced
through work). Given such a situation, it is little wonder that people turn to mass
culture for compensation and passive distraction; the drug habit develops and they
become junkies addicted to ‘substitute living’. A world of rural rhythms has been lost
to the monotony and mediocrity of ‘suburbanism’ (99). Whereas in the organic community
everyday culture was a constant support to the health of the individual, in mass
civilization one must make a conscious and directed effort to avoid the unhealthy
influence of everyday culture. The Leavisites fail to mention, as Williams (1963)
remarks, ‘the penury, the petty tyranny, the disease and mortality, the ignorance and
frustrated intelligence which were also among its ingredients’ (253). What we are presented
with is not a historical account, but a literary myth to draw attention to the
nature of our supposed loss: ‘the memory of the old order must be the chief incitement
towards a new’ (Leavis and Thompson, 1977: 97). But, although the organic community
is lost, it is still possible to get access to its values and standards by reading works
of great literature. Literature is a treasury embodying all that is to be valued in human
experience. Unfortunately, literature as the jewel in the crown of culture, has, like
culture, lost its authority. Leavisism, as noted earlier, made plans to remedy this by dispatching
cultural missionaries, a small select band of literary intellectuals, to establish
outposts of culture within universities to maintain the literary/cultural tradition and
encourage its ‘continuous collaborative renewal’ (Leavis, 1972: 27); and into schools
to arm students to wage war against the general barbarism of mass culture and mass
civilization. The re-establishment of literature’s authority would not of course herald
the return of the organic community, but it would keep under control the expansion
of the influence of mass culture and thus preserve and maintain the continuity of
England’s cultural tradition. In short, it would help maintain and produce an ‘educated
public’, who would continue the Arnoldian project of keeping in circulation ‘the best
that has been thought and said’ (now more or less reduced to the reading of works of
great literature).
It is very easy to be critical of the Leavisite approach to popular culture. But, as
Bennett (1982b) points out,
Even as late as the mid fifties . . . ‘Leavisism’ [provided] the only developed intellectual
terrain on which it was possible to engage with the study of popular culture.
Historically, of course, the work produced by the ‘Leavisites’ was of seminal
importance, constituting the first attempt to apply to popular forms techniques of
literary analysis previously reserved for ‘serious’ works. . . . Perhaps more importantly,
the general impact of ‘Leavisism’ at least as scathing in its criticisms of established
‘high’ and ‘middle brow’ culture as of popular forms tended to unsettle the
prevailing canons of aesthetic judgement and evaluation with, in the long term,
quite radical and often unforeseen consequences (5–6).

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Chapter 2 The ‘culture and civilization’ tradition
In Chapter 3 we shall begin to consider some of these radical and often unforeseen
consequences as they appear in the work of Richard Hoggart and Raymond Williams.
Mass culture in America: the post-war debate
In the first fifteen or so years following the end of the Second World War, American
intellectuals engaged in a debate about so-called mass culture. Andrew Ross (1989)
sees ‘mass’ as ‘one of the key terms that governs the official distinction between
American/UnAmerican’ (42). He argues that, ‘[t]he history behind this official distinction
is in many ways the history of the formation of the modern national culture’
(ibid.). Following the Second World War, America experienced the temporary success
of a cultural and political consensus – supposedly based on liberalism, pluralism and
classlessness. Until its collapse in the agitation for black civil rights, the formation
of the counterculture, the opposition to America’s war in Vietnam, the women’s liberation
movement, and the campaign for gay and lesbian rights, it was a consensus
dependent to a large extent on the cultural authority of American intellectuals. As Ross
points out: ‘For perhaps the first time in American history, intellectuals, as a social
grouping, had the opportunity to recognize themselves as national agents of cultural,
moral, and political leadership’ (43). This newly found significance was in part due to
‘the intense, and quite public, debate about “mass culture” that occupied intellectuals
for almost fifteen years, until the late fifties’ (ibid.). Ross spends most of his time relating
the debate to the Cold War ideology of ‘containment’: the need to maintain a
healthy body politic both within (from the dangers of cultural impoverishment) and
without (from the dangers of Soviet communism). He identifies three positions in the
debate:
1. An aesthetic–liberal position that bemoans the fact that given the choice the
majority of the population choose so-called second- and third-rate cultural texts and
practices in preference to the texts and practices of high culture.
2. The corporate–liberal or progressive–evolutionist position that claims that
popular culture serves a benign function of socializing people into the pleasures of
consumption in the new capitalist–consumerist society.
3. The radical or socialist position which views mass culture as a form of, or means to,
social control.
Towards the end of the 1950s, the debate became increasingly dominated by the first
two positions. This reflected in part the growing McCarthyite pressure to renounce anything
resembling a socialist analysis. Given limited space, I will focus only on the
debate about the health of the body politic within. In order to understand the debate
one publication is essential reading – the anthology Mass Culture: The Popular Arts in
America, published in 1957. Reading the many contributions, one quickly gets a sense

Mass culture in America: the post-war debate 29
of the parameters of the debate – what is at stake in the debate, and who are the principal
participants.
Bernard Rosenberg (co-editor with David Manning White) argues that the material
wealth and well-being of American society are being undermined by the dehumanizing
effects of mass culture. His greatest anxiety is that, ‘At worst, mass culture threatens
not merely to cretinize our taste, but to brutalize our senses while paving the way to
totalitarianism’ (1957: 9). He claims that mass culture is not American by nature, or
by example, nor is it the inevitable culture of democracy. Mass culture, according to
Rosenberg, is nowhere more widespread than in the Soviet Union. Its author is not
capitalism, but technology. Therefore America cannot be held responsible for its emergence
or for its persistence. White (1957) makes a similar point but for a different purpose.
‘The critics of mass culture’ (13), White observes, ‘take an exceedingly dim view
of contemporary American society’ (14). His defence of American (mass) culture is to
compare it with aspects of the popular culture of the past. He maintains that critics
romanticize the past in order to castigate the present. He condemns those ‘who discuss
American culture as if they were holding a dead vermin in their hands’ (ibid.), and yet
forget the sadistic and brutal reality of animal baiting that was the everyday culture in
which Shakespeare’s plays first appeared. His point is that every period in history has
produced ‘men who preyed upon the ignorance and insecurities of the largest part of
the populace . . . and therefore we need not be so shocked that such men exist today’
(ibid.). The second part of his defence consists of cataloguing the extent to which high
culture flourishes in America: for example, Shakespeare on TV, record figures for book
borrowing from libraries, a successful tour by the Sadler’s Wells Ballet, the fact that
more people attend classical music events than attend baseball games, the increasing
number of symphony orchestras.
A key figure in the debate is Dwight Macdonald. In a very influential essay, ‘A theory
of mass culture’, he attacks mass culture on a number of fronts. First of all, mass
culture undermines the vitality of high culture. It is a parasitic culture, feeding on high
culture, while offering nothing in return.
Folk art grew from below. It was a spontaneous, autochthonous expression of the
people, shaped by themselves, pretty much without the benefit of High Culture, to
suit their own needs. Mass Culture is imposed from above. It is fabricated by technicians
hired by businessmen; its audience are passive consumers, their participation
limited to the choice between buying and not buying. The Lords of kitsch, in
short, exploit the cultural needs of the masses in order to make a profit and/or to
maintain their class-rule . . . in Communist countries, only the second purpose
obtains. Folk art was the people’s own institution, their private little garden walled
off from the great formal park of their masters’ High Culture. But Mass Culture
breaks down the wall, integrating the masses into a debased form of High Culture
and thus becoming an instrument of political domination (1998: 23).
Like other contributors to the debate, Macdonald is quick to deny the claim that
America is the land of mass culture: ‘the fact is that the U.S.S.R. is even more a land

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Chapter 2 The ‘culture and civilization’ tradition
of Mass Culture than is the U.S.A’ (ibid.). This fact, he claims, is often missed by
critics who focus only on the ‘form’ of mass culture in the Soviet Union. But it is mass
culture (not folk culture: the expression of the people; nor high culture: the expression
of the individual artist); and it differs from American mass culture in that ‘its quality is
even lower’, and in that ‘it exploits rather than satisfies the cultural needs of the masses
. . . for political rather than commercial reasons’ (24). In spite of its superiority to
Soviet mass culture, American mass culture still represents a problem (‘acute in the
United States’): ‘The eruption of the masses onto the political stage [produced] . . .
disastrous cultural results’ (ibid.). This problem has been compounded by the absence
of ‘a clearly defined cultural elite’ (ibid.). If one existed, the masses could have mass
culture and the elite could have high culture. However, without a cultural elite,
America is under threat from a Gresham’s Law of culture: the bad will drive out the
good; the result will be not just a homogeneous culture but a ‘homogenized culture . . .
that threatens to engulf everything in its spreading ooze’ (27), dispersing the cream
from the top and turning the American people into infantile masses. His conclusions
are pessimistic to say the least: ‘far from Mass Culture getting better, we will be lucky if
it doesn’t get worse’ (29).
The analysis changes again as we move from the disillusioned ex-Trotskyism of
Macdonald to the liberalism of Ernest van den Haag (1957), who suggests that mass
culture is the inevitable outcome of mass society and mass production:
The mass produced article need not aim low, but it must aim at an average of
tastes. In satisfying all (or at least many) individual tastes in some respects, it violates
each in other respects. For there are so far no average persons having average
tastes. Averages are but statistical composites. A mass produced article, while
reflecting nearly everybody’s taste to some extent, is unlikely to embody anybody’s
taste fully. This is one source of the sense of violation which is rationalized vaguely
in theories about deliberate debasement of taste (512).
He also suggests another reason: the temptations offered by mass culture to high
culture. Two factors must be particularly tempting: (i) the financial rewards of mass
culture, and (ii) the potentially enormous audience. He uses Dante as an illustration.
Although Dante may have suffered religious and political pressures, he was not
tempted to shape his work to make it appeal to an average of tastes. Had he been
‘tempted to write for Sports Illustrated’ or had he been asked ‘to condense his work for
Reader’s Digest’ or had he been given a contract ‘to adapt it for the movies’, would he
have been able to maintain his aesthetic and moral standards? Dante was fortunate; his
talent was never really tempted to stray from the true path of creativity: ‘there were no
alternatives to being as good a writer as his talent permitted’ (521).
It is not so much that mass taste has deteriorated, van den Haag argues, but that
mass taste has become more important to the cultural producers in Western societies.
Like White, he notes the plurality of cultural texts and practices consumed in America.
However, he also notes the way in which high culture and folk culture are absorbed
into mass culture, and are consequently consumed as mass culture: ‘it is not new nor

disastrous that few people read classics. It is new that so many people misread them’
(528). He cannot help in the end declaring that mass culture is a drug which ‘lessens
people’s capacity to experience life itself’ (529). Mass culture is ultimately a sign of
impoverishment. It marks the de-individualization of life: an endless search after what
Freud calls ‘substitute gratifications’. 7 The trouble with substitute gratifications, according
to the mass culture critique, is that they shut out ‘real gratifications’ (532–5). This
leads van den Haag to suggest that the consumption of mass culture is a form of repression;
the empty texts and practices of mass culture are consumed to fill an emptiness
within, which grows ever more empty the more the empty texts and practices of mass
culture are consumed. The operation of this cycle of repression makes it increasingly
impossible to experience ‘real gratification’. The result is a nightmare in which the cultural
‘masturbator’ or the ‘addict’ of mass culture is trapped in a cycle of non-fulfilment,
moving aimlessly between boredom and distraction:
Though the bored person hungers for things to happen to him, the disheartening
fact is that when they do he empties them of the very meaning he unconsciously
yearns for by using them as distractions. In popular culture even the second coming
would become just another ‘barren’ thrill to be watched on television till
Milton Berle comes on (535).
Van den Haag differs from the ‘cultural nostalgics’, who use romanticized versions
of the past to condemn the present, in his uncertainty about the past. He knows that
‘popular culture impoverishes life without leading to contentment. But whether “the
mass of men” felt better or worse without mass production techniques of which popular
culture is an ineluctable part, we shall never know’ (536). Edward Shils (1978) has
none of van den Haag’s uncertainty. Moreover, he knows that when van den Haag says
that industry has impoverished life he is talking nonsense:
The present pleasures of the working and lower middle class are not worthy of profound
aesthetic, moral or intellectual esteem but they are surely not inferior to the
villainous things which gave pleasure to their European ancestors from the Middle
Ages to the nineteenth century (35).
Shils rejects completely
Mass culture in America: the post-war debate 31
the utterly erroneous idea that the twentieth century is a period of severe intellectual
deterioration and that this alleged deterioration is a product of a mass culture.
. . . Indeed, it would be far more correct to assert that mass culture is now less damaging
to the lower classes than the dismal and harsh existence of earlier centuries
had ever been (36).
As far as Shils can see the problem is not mass culture, but the response of intellectuals
to mass culture. In similar fashion, D.W. Brogan (1978), whilst in agreement
with much of Macdonald’s argument, remains more optimistic. He believes that

32
Chapter 2 The ‘culture and civilization’ tradition
Macdonald in being ‘so grimly critical of the present America, is too kind to the past in
America and to the past and present in Europe’ (191). In this way, Macdonald’s pessimism
about the present is only sustained by his overly optimistic view of the past. In
short, he ‘exaggerates . . . the bad eminence of the United States’ (193).
In ‘The middle against both ends’, Leslie Fiedler (1957), unlike most other contributors
to the debate, claims that mass culture
is a peculiarly American phenomenon. ...I do not mean . . . that it is found only
in the United States, but that wherever it is found, it comes first from us, and is still
to be discovered in fully developed form only among us. Our experience along
these lines is, in this sense, a preview for the rest of the world of what must follow
the inevitable dissolution of the older aristocratic cultures (539).
For Fiedler, mass culture is popular culture that ‘refuses to know its place’. As he
explains,
contemporary vulgar culture is brutal and disturbing: the quasi spontaneous expression
of the uprooted and culturally dispossessed inhabitants of anonymous cities,
contriving mythologies which reduce to manageable form the threat of science, the
horror of unlimited war, the general spread of corruption in a world where the
social bases of old loyalties and heroisms have long been destroyed (540).
Fiedler poses the question: What is wrong with American mass culture? He knows that
for some critics, at home and abroad, the fact that it is American is enough reason to
condemn it. But, for Fiedler, the inevitability of the American experience makes the
argument meaningless; that is, unless those who support the argument are also against
industrialization, mass education and democracy. He sees America ‘in the midst of a
strange two-front class war’. In the centre is ‘the genteel middling mind’, at the top is
‘the ironical-aristocratic sensibility’, and at the bottom is ‘the brutal-populist mentality’
(545). The attack on popular culture is a symptom of timidity and an expression
of conformity in matters of culture: ‘the fear of the vulgar is the obverse of the fear
of excellence, and both are aspects of the fear of difference: symptoms of a drive for
conformity on the level of the timid, sentimental, mindless-bodiless genteel’ (547).
The genteel middling mind wants cultural equality on its own terms. This is not the
Leavisite demand for cultural deference, but an insistence on an end to cultural difference.
Therefore, Fiedler sees American mass culture as hierarchical and pluralist, rather
than homogenized and levelling. Moreover, he celebrates it as such.
Shils (1978) suggests a similar model – American culture is divided into three
cultural ‘classes’, each embodying different versions of the cultural: ‘“superior” or
“refined” culture’ at the top, ‘“mediocre” culture’ in the middle, and ‘“brutal” culture’
at the bottom (206). Mass society has changed the cultural map, reducing the
significance of ‘superior or refined culture’, and increasing the importance of both
‘mediocre’ and ‘brutal’ (209). However, Shils does not see this as a totally negative
development: ‘It is an indication of a crude aesthetic awakening in classes which

previously accepted what was handed down to them or who had practically no aesthetic
expression and reception’ (ibid.). Like Fiedler, Shils does not shy away from the
claim that America is the home of mass culture. He calls America ‘that most massive of
all mass societies’ (218). But he remains optimistic: ‘As a matter of fact, the vitality, the
individuality, which may rehabilitate our intellectual public will probably be the fruits
of the liberation of powers and possibilities inherent in mass societies’ (226). As Ross
(1989) suggests, in Fiedler’s essay, and in the work of other writers in the 1950s and
early 1960s,
the concept of ‘class’ makes a conditional return after its years in the intellectual
wilderness. This time, however, class analysis returns not to draw attention to
conflicts and contradictions, as had been the case in the thirties, but rather to serve
a hegemonic moment in which a consensus was being established about the non
antagonistic coexistence of different political conceptions of the world. Cultural
classes could exist as long as they kept themselves to themselves (58).
Cultural choice and consumption become both the sign of class belonging and the
mark of class difference. However, instead of class antagonism, there is only plurality
of consumer choice within a general consensus of the dangers within and the dangers
without. In short, the debate about mass culture had become the terrain on which to
construct the Cold War ideology of containment. After all, as Melvin Tumin (1957)
points out, ‘America and Americans have available to them the resources, both of mind
and matter, to build and support the finest culture the world has ever known’ (550).
The fact that this has not yet occurred does not dismay Tumin; for him it simply
prompts the question: How do we make it happen? For the answer, he looks to
American intellectuals, who ‘never before have . . . been so well placed in situations
where they can function as intellectuals’ (ibid.), and through the debate on mass
culture, to take the lead in helping to build the finest popular culture the world has ever
known.
The culture of other people
The culture of other people 33
It is easy to be critical of the ‘culture and civilization’ tradition’s approach to popular
culture. Given the recent developments in the field of cultural theory, it is almost
enough to present a narrative of its approach to condemn it to populist disapproval.
However, it must be remembered that from a historical point of view, the tradition’s
work is absolutely foundational to the project of the study of popular culture in British
cultural studies. Furthermore, the impact of the tradition is difficult to overestimate: for
more than a century it was undoubtedly the dominant paradigm in cultural analysis.
Indeed, it could be argued that it still forms a kind of repressed ‘common sense’ in certain
areas of British and American academic and non-academic life.

34
Chapter 2 The ‘culture and civilization’ tradition
Although the ‘culture and civilization’ tradition, especially in its Leavisite form, created
an educational space for the study of popular culture, there is also a real sense in
which this approach to popular culture ‘actively impeded its development as an area
of study’ (Bennett, 1982b: 6). The principal problem is its working assumption that
popular culture always represents little more than an example of cultural decline and
potential political disorder. Given this assumption, theoretical research and empirical
investigation continued to confirm what it always expected to find.
It was an assumption of the theory that there was something wrong with popular
culture and, of course, once that assumption had been made, all the rest followed:
one found what one was looking for – signs of decay and deterioration – precisely
because the theory required that these be found. In short, the only role offered to
the products of popular culture was that of fall guy (ibid.).
As we have noted, popular culture is condemned for many things. However, as
Bennett points out, the ‘culture and civilization’ tradition is not noted for its detailed
analyses of the texts and practices of popular culture. Instead, it looked down from the
splendid heights of high culture to what it saw as the commercial wastelands of popular
culture, seeking only confirmation of cultural decline, cultural difference, and the
need for cultural deference, regulation and control. It
was very much a discourse of the ‘cultured’ about the culture of those without ‘culture’.
. . . In short, popular culture was approached from a distance and gingerly,
held at arm’s length by outsiders who clearly lacked any sense of fondness for or
participation in the forms they were studying. It was always the culture of ‘other
people’ that was at issue (ibid.).
The anxieties of the ‘culture and civilization’ tradition are anxieties about social
and cultural extension: how to deal with challenges to cultural and social exclusivity.
As the nineteenth century receded, and those traditionally outside ‘culture’ and
‘society’ demanded inclusion, strategies were adopted to incorporate and to exclude.
Acceptance brought into being ‘high society’ and ‘high culture’, to be distinguished
from society and culture or, better still, mass society and mass culture. In short, it is
a tradition that demanded, and expected, two responses from the ‘masses’ (see
Photo 2.1) – cultural and social difference and cultural and social deference. As we
shall see (in Chapters 9 and 10), some of the debates around postmodernism may be
in part little more than the latest struggle for inclusion in, and exclusion from, Culture
(with a capital C), which ultimately is less about texts, and much more about people
and their everyday lived cultures.

Photo 2.1 A day trip to Blackpool in the early 1950s. There are ...no masses;
there are only ways of seeing [other] people as masses (Raymond
Williams, 1963: 289).
Further reading
Further reading 35
Storey, John (ed.), Cultural Theory and Popular Culture: A Reader, 4th edition, Harlow:
Pearson Education, 2009. This is the companion volume to this book. It contains
examples of most of the work discussed here. This book and the companion Reader
are supported by an interactive website (www.pearsoned.co.uk/storey). The website
has links to other useful sites and electronic resources.
Baldick, Chris, The Social Mission of English 1848–1932, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1983.
Contains interesting and informed chapters on Arnold and Leavisism.
Bilan, R.P., The Literary Criticism of F.R. Leavis, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1979. Although mostly on Leavis as a literary critic, it contains some useful material
on his attitude to high and popular culture.
Bramson, Leon, The Political Context of Sociology, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University
Press, 1961. Contains an illuminating chapter on the mass culture debate in America.
Gans, Herbert J., Popular Culture and High Culture: An Analysis and Evaluation of Taste,
New York: Basic Books, 1974. The book is a late contribution to the mass culture
debate in America. It presents a compelling argument in defence of cultural pluralism.

36
Chapter 2 The ‘culture and civilization’ tradition
Johnson, Lesley, The Cultural Critics, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1979. Contains
useful chapters on Arnold and on F.R. Leavis.
Mulhern, Francis, The Moment of Scrutiny, London: New Left Books, 1979. Perhaps the
classic account of Leavisism.
Ross, Andrew, No Respect: Intellectuals and Popular Culture, London: Routledge, 1989.
An interesting book, with a useful chapter on the mass culture debate in America.
Trilling, Lionel, Matthew Arnold, London: Unwin University Press, 1949. Still the best
introduction to Arnold.
Waites, Bernard, Tony Bennett and Graham Martin (eds), Popular Culture: Past and
Present, London: Croom Helm, 1982. A collection of essays on different examples
of popular culture. Chapters 1, 4 and 6 address popular culture and the historical
context that gave rise to the anxieties of the ‘culture and civilization’ tradition.
Williams, Raymond, Culture and Society, Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1963. The seminal
book on the ‘culture and civilization’ tradition: includes chapters on Arnold and
F.R. Leavis.

3 Culturalism
In this chapter I will consider the work produced by Richard Hoggart, Raymond
Williams, E.P. Thompson, and Stuart Hall and Paddy Whannel in the late 1950s and
early 1960s. This body of work, despite certain differences between its authors, constitutes
the founding texts of culturalism. As Hall (1978) was later to observe, ‘Within
cultural studies in Britain, “culturalism” has been the most vigorous, indigenous
strand’ (19). The chapter will end with a brief discussion of the institutionalization of
culturalism at the Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies.
Both Hoggart and Williams develop positions in response to Leavisism. As we noted
in Chapter 2, the Leavisites opened up in Britain an educational space for the study of
popular culture. Hoggart and Williams occupy this space in ways that challenge many
of the basic assumptions of Leavisism, whilst also sharing some of these assumptions.
It is this contradictory mixture – looking back to the ‘culture and civilization’ tradition,
whilst at the same time moving forward to culturalism and the foundations of the
cultural studies approach to popular culture – which has led The Uses of Literacy, Culture
and Society and The Long Revolution to be called both texts of the ‘break’ and examples
of ‘left-Leavisism’ (Hall, 1996a).
Thompson, on the other hand, would describe his work, then and always, as
Marxist. The term ‘culturalism’ was coined to describe his work, and the work of
Hoggart and Williams, by one of the former directors of the Centre for Contemporary
Cultural Studies, Richard Johnson (1979). Johnson uses the term to indicate the presence
of a body of theoretical concerns connecting the work of the three theorists. Each,
in his different way, breaks with key aspects of the tradition he inherits. Hoggart and
Williams break with Leavisism; Thompson breaks with mechanistic and economistic
versions of Marxism. What unites them is an approach which insists that by analysing
the culture of a society – the textual forms and documented practices of a culture – it
is possible to reconstitute the patterned behaviour and constellations of ideas shared
by the men and women who produce and consume the texts and practices of that society.
It is a perspective that stresses ‘human agency’, the active production of culture,
rather than its passive consumption. Although not usually included in accounts of the
formation of culturalism out of left-Leavisism, Hall and Whannel’s The Popular Arts is
included here because of its classic left-Leavisite focus on popular culture. Taken
together as a body of work, the contributions of Hoggart, Williams, Thompson, and
Hall and Whannel, clearly mark the emergence of what is now known as the cultural

38
Chapter 3 Culturalism
studies approach to popular culture. The institutional home of these developments
was, especially in the 1970s and early 1980s, the Centre for Contemporary Cultural
Studies, at the University of Birmingham (see Green, 1996).
Richard Hoggart: The Uses of Literacy
The Uses of Literacy is divided into two parts: ‘An “older” order’, describing the workingclass
culture of Hoggart’s childhood in the 1930s; and ‘Yielding place to new’, describing
a traditional working-class culture under threat from the new forms of mass entertainment
of the 1950s. Dividing the book in this way in itself speaks volumes about
the perspective taken and the conclusions expected. On the one hand, we have the
traditional ‘lived culture’ of the 1930s. On the other, we have the cultural decline of the
1950s. Hoggart is in fact aware that during the course of writing the book, ‘nostalgia
was colouring the material in advance: I have done what I could to remove its effects’
(1990: 17). He is also aware that the division he makes between the ‘older’ and the
‘new’, underplays the amount of continuity between the two. It should also be noted
that his evidence for the ‘older’ depends, not on ‘invoking some rather mistily conceived
pastoral tradition the better to assault the present, [but] to a large extent on
memories of my childhood about twenty years ago’ (23, 24). His evidence for the cultural
decline represented by the popular culture of the 1950s is material gathered as a
university lecturer and researcher. In short, the ‘older’ is based on personal experience;
the ‘new’ on academic research. This is a significant and informing distinction.
It is also worth noting something about Hoggart’s project that is often misunderstood.
What he attacks is not a ‘moral’ decline in the working class as such, but what
he perceives as a decline in the ‘moral seriousness’ of the culture provided for the working
class. He repeats on a number of occasions his confidence in the working class’s
ability to resist many of the manipulations of mass culture: ‘This is not simply a power
of passive resistance, but something which, though not articulate, is positive. The working
classes have a strong natural ability to survive change by adapting or assimilating
what they want in the new and ignoring the rest’ (32). His confidence stems from his
belief that their response to mass culture is always partial: ‘with a large part of themselves
they are just “not there”, are living elsewhere, living intuitively, habitually, verbally,
drawing on myth, aphorism, and ritual. This saves them from some of the worst
effects’ (33).
According to Hoggart,
working class people have traditionally, or at least for several generations, regarded
art as escape, as something enjoyed but not assumed to have much connexion with
the matter of daily life. Art is marginal, ‘fun’. . .‘real’ life goes on elsewhere. ...Art
is for you to use (238).

Richard Hoggart: The Uses of Literacy 39
He describes the aesthetic of the working class as an ‘overriding interest in the close
detail’ of the everyday; a profound interest in the already known; a taste for culture that
‘shows’ rather than ‘explores’. The working-class consumer, according to Hoggart’s
account, therefore seeks not ‘an escape from ordinary life’, but its intensification, in the
embodied belief ‘that ordinary life is intrinsically interesting’ (120). The new mass
entertainment of the 1950s is said to undermine this aesthetic:
Most mass entertainments are in the end what D.H. Lawrence described as ‘antilife’.
They are full of a corrupt brightness, of improper appeals and moral evasions
. . . they offer nothing which can really grip the brain or heart. They assist a
gradual drying up of the more positive, the fuller, the more cooperative kinds of
enjoyment, in which one gains much by giving much (340).
It is not just that the pleasures of mass entertainment are ‘irresponsible’ and ‘vicarious’
(ibid.); they are also destroying the very fabric of an older, healthier, working-class
culture. He is adamant that (in the 1950s)
we are moving towards the creation of a mass culture; that the remnants of what
was at least in parts an urban culture ‘of the people’ are being destroyed; and that
the new mass culture is in some important ways less healthy than the often crude
culture it is replacing (24).
He claims that the working-class culture of the 1930s expressed what he calls ‘The rich
full life’, marked by a strong sense of community. This is a culture that is by and large
made by the people. Here is a fairly well-known example of what he means – his
description of a typical day at the seaside:
the ‘charas’ go rolling out across the moors for the sea, past the road houses which
turn up their noses at coach parties, to one the driver knows where there is coffee
and biscuits or perhaps a full egg and bacon breakfast. Then on to a substantial
lunch on arrival, and after that a fanning out in groups. But rarely far from one
another, because they know their part of the town and their bit of beach, where
they feel at home. . . . They have a nice walk past the shops; perhaps a drink; a sit
in a deck chair eating an ice cream or sucking mint humbugs; a great deal of loud
laughter – at Mrs Johnson insisting on a paddle with her dress tucked in her
bloomers, at Mrs Henderson pretending she has ‘got off’ with the deck chair attendant,
or in the queue at the ladies lavatory. Then there is the buying of presents for
the family, a big meat tea, and the journey home with a stop for drinks on the way.
If the men are there, and certainly if it is a men’s outing, there will probably be
several stops and a crate or two of beer in the back for drinking on the move.
Somewhere in the middle of the moors the men’s parties all tumble out, with
much horseplay and noisy jokes about bladder capacity. The driver knows exactly
what is expected of him as he steers his warm, fuggy, and singing community back

40
Chapter 3 Culturalism
to the town; for his part he gets a very large tip, collected during the run through
the last few miles of the town streets (147–8).
This is a popular culture that is communal and self-made. Hoggart can be criticized for
his romanticism, but we should also recognize here, in the passage’s utopian energy,
an example of Hoggart’s struggle to establish a working distinction to distinguish
between a culture ‘of the people’ and a ‘world where things are done for the people’
(151).
The first half of The Uses of Literacy consists mostly of examples of communal and
self-made entertainment. The analysis is often in considerable advance of Leavisism.
For example, he defends working-class appreciation of popular song against the dismissive
hostility of Cecil Sharp’s (Leavisesque) longing for the ‘purity’ of folk music
(see Storey, 2003) in terms which were soon to become central to the project of cultural
studies. Songs only succeed, he argues, ‘no matter how much Tin Pan Alley plugs
them’ (159), if they can be made to meet the emotional requirements of their popular
audience. As he says of the popular appropriation of ‘After the Ball is Over’, ‘they have
taken it on their own terms, and so it is not for them as poor a thing as it might have
been’ (162).
The idea of an audience appropriating for its own purposes – on its own terms – the
commodities offered to it by the culture industries is never fully explored. But the idea
is there in Hoggart; again indicating the underexploited sophistication of parts of The
Uses of Literacy – too often dismissed as a rather unacademic, and nostalgic, semiautobiography.
The real weakness of the book is its inability to carry forward the
insights from its treatment of the popular culture of the 1930s into its treatment of the
so-called mass culture of the 1950s. If it had done, it would have, for example, quickly
found totally inadequate the contrasting descriptive titles, ‘The full rich life’ and
‘Invitations to a candy-floss world’. It is worth noting at this point that it is not necessary
to say that Hoggart’s picture of the 1930s is romanticized in order to prove that his
picture of the 1950s is exaggeratedly pessimistic and overdrawn; he does not have to
be proved wrong about the 1930s, as some critics seem to think, in order to be proved
wrong about the 1950s. It is possible that he is right about the 1930s, whilst being
wrong about the 1950s. Like many intellectuals whose origins are working class, he is
perhaps prone to bracket off his own working-class experience against the real and
imagined condescension of his new middle-class colleagues: ‘I know the contemporary
working class is deplorable, but mine was different.’ Although I would not wish to overstress
this motivation, it does get some support in Williams’s (1957) review of The Uses
of Literacy, when he comments on ‘lucky Hoggart’s’ account of the scholarship boy:
‘which I think’, Williams observes, ‘has been well received by some readers (and why
not? it is much what they wanted to hear, and now an actual scholarship boy is saying
it)’ (426–7). Again, in a discussion of the ‘strange allies’ dominant groups often attract,
Williams (1965) makes a similar, but more general point:
In our own generation we have a new class of the same kind: the young men and
women who have benefited by the extension of public education and who, in

Richard Hoggart: The Uses of Literacy 41
surprising numbers, identify with the world into which they have been admitted,
and spend much of their time, to the applause of their new peers, expounding and
documenting the hopeless vulgarity of the people they have left: the one thing that
is necessary now, to weaken belief in the practicability of further educational extension
(377–8).
When, in the second part of his study, Hoggart turns to consider ‘some features of
contemporary life’ (169), the self-making aspect of working-class culture is mostly kept
from view. The popular aesthetic, so important for an understanding of the workingclass
pleasure on show in the 1930s, is now forgotten in the rush to condemn the
popular culture of the 1950s. The success of ‘the radio “soap operas”, with working
class women . . . is due to the consummateness of their attention . . . to their remarkably
sustained presentation of the perfectly ordinary and unremarkable’ (181). This is
repeated in newspaper cartoons featuring such figures as ‘the “little man” worrying for
days on end about his daughter’s chances in the school cookery competition ...a daily
exercise in spinning out the unimportant and insignificant’ (ibid.). What has happened
to the intrinsic significance of the everyday? Instead of talk of a popular aesthetic, we
are invited on a tour of the manipulative power of the culture industries. The popular
culture of the 1950s, as described by Hoggart, no longer offers the possibility of a full
rich life; everything is now far too thin and insipid. The power of ‘commercial culture’
has grown, relentless in its attack on the old (traditional working-class culture) in the
name of the new, the ‘shiny barbarism’ (193) of mass culture. This is a world in which
‘To be “old fashioned” is to be condemned’ (192). It is a condition to which the young
are particularly vulnerable. These ‘barbarians in wonderland’ (193) demand more, and
are given more, than their parents and their grandparents had or expected to have. But
such supposedly mindless hedonism, fed by thin and insipid fare, leads only to debilitating
excess.
‘Having a good time’ may be made to seem so important as to override almost all
other claims; yet when it has been allowed to do so, having a good time becomes
largely a matter of routine. The strongest argument against modern mass entertainments
is not that they debase taste – debasement can be alive and active – but
that they over excite it, eventually dull it, and finally kill it. . . . They kill it at the
nerve, and yet so bemuse and persuade their audience that the audience is almost
entirely unable to look up and say, ‘But in fact this cake is made of sawdust’
(196–7).
Although (in the late 1950s) that stage had not yet been reached, all the signs,
according to Hoggart, indicate that this is the way in which the world is travelling. But
even in this ‘candy-floss world’ (206) there are still signs of resistance. For example,
although mass culture may produce some awful popular songs,
people do not have to sing or listen to these songs, and many do not: and those
who do, often make the songs better than they really are . . . people often read

42
Chapter 3 Culturalism
them in their own way. So that even there they are less affected than the extent of
their purchases would seem to indicate (231).
Again, this reminds us that Hoggart’s target is (mostly) the producers of the commodities
from which popular culture is made and not those who make these commodities
(or not) into popular culture. Although he offers many examples of ‘proof’ of
cultural decline, popular fiction is arguably his key example of deterioration. He compares
a piece of contemporary writing (in fact it is an imitation written by himself) with
an extract from East Lynne and an extract from Adam Bede. He concludes that in comparison
the contemporary extract is thin and insipid: a ‘trickle of tinned milk and water
which staves off the pangs of a positive hunger and denies the satisfactions of a solidly
filling meal’ (237). Leaving aside the fact that the contemporary extract is an imitation
(as are all his contemporary examples), Hoggart argues that its inferiority is due to the
fact that it lacks the ‘moral tone’ (236) of the other two extracts. This may be true, but
what is also significant is the way in which the other two extracts are full of ‘moral tone’
in a quite definite sense: they attempt to tell the reader what to think; they are, as he
admits, ‘oratory’ (235). The contemporary extract is similarly thin in a quite definite
sense: it does not tell the reader what to think. Therefore, although there may be various
grounds on which we might wish to rank the three extracts, with Adam Bede at the
top and the contemporary extract at the bottom, ‘moral tone’ (meaning fiction should
tell people what to think) seems to lead us nowhere but back to the rather bogus certainties
of Leavisism. Moreover, we can easily reverse the judgement: the contemporary
extract is to be valued for its elliptic and interrogative qualities; it invites us to think by
not thinking for us; this is not to be dismissed as an absence of thought (or ‘moral tone’
for that matter), but as an absence full of potential presence, which the reader is invited
to actively produce.
One supposedly striking portent of the journey into the candy-floss world is the
habitual visitor to the new milk bars, ‘the juke box boy’ (247) – his term for the Teddy
boy. Milk bars are themselves symptomatic: they ‘indicate at once, in the nastiness of
their modernistic knick-knacks, their glaring showiness, an aesthetic breakdown so
complete’ (ibid.). Patrons are mostly ‘boys between fifteen and twenty, with drape
suits, picture ties, and an American slouch’ (248). Their main reason for being there
is to ‘put copper after copper into the mechanical record player’ (ibid.). Records are
played loud: the music ‘is allowed to blare out so that the noise would be sufficient to
fill a good sized ballroom’ (ibid.). Listening to the music, ‘The young men waggle one
shoulder or stare, as desperately as Humphrey Bogart, across the tubular chairs’ (ibid.).
Compared even with the pub around the corner, this is all a peculiarly thin and
pallid form of dissipation, a sort of spiritual dry-rot amid the odour of boiled milk.
Many of the customers – their clothes, their hair styles, their facial expressions
all indicate – are living to a large extent in a myth world compounded of a few
simple elements which they take to be those of American life (ibid.).
According to Hoggart,

Richard Hoggart: The Uses of Literacy 43
They are a depressing group . . . perhaps most of them are rather less intelligent
than the average [working-class youth], and are therefore even more exposed than
others to the debilitating mass trends of the day . . . they have no responsibilities,
and little sense of responsibilities, to themselves or to others (248–9).
Although ‘they are not typical’, they are an ominous sign of things to come:
these are the figures some important contemporary forces are tending to create, the
directionless and tamed helots of a machine-minding class. . . . The hedonistic but
passive barbarian who rides in a fifty-horse-power bus for threepence, to see a fivemillion-dollar
film for one-and-eightpence, is not simply a social oddity; he is a
portent (250).
The juke-box boy symptomatically bears the prediction of a society in which ‘the larger
part of the population is reduced to a condition of obediently receptive passivity, their
eyes glued to television sets, pin ups, and cinema screens’ (316).
Hoggart, however, does not totally despair at the march of mass culture. He knows,
for instance, that the working class ‘are not living lives which are imaginatively as poor
as a mere reading of their literature would suggest’ (324). The old communal and selfmade
popular culture still remains in working-class ways of speaking, in ‘the Working-
Men’s Clubs, the styles of singing, the brass bands, the older types of magazines, the
close group games like darts and dominoes’ (ibid.). Moreover, he trusts their ‘considerable
moral resources’ (325) to allow them, and to encourage them, to continue to adapt
for their own purposes the commodities and commodified practices of the culture industries.
In short, they ‘are a good deal less affected than they might well be. The question,
of course, is how long this stock of moral capital will last, and whether it is being
renewed’ (ibid.). For all his guarded optimism, he warns that it is a ‘form of democratic
self-indulgence to over-stress this resilience’ in the face of the ‘increasingly dangerous
pressures’ (330) of mass culture, with all its undermining of genuine community with
an increasingly ‘hollow . . . invitation to share in a kind of palliness’ (340). His ultimate
fear is that ‘competitive commerce’ (243) may have totalitarian designs:
Inhibited now from ensuring the ‘degradation’ of the masses economically . . .
competitive commerce . . . becomes a new and stronger form of subjection; this
subjection promises to be stronger than the old because the chains of cultural subordination
are both easier to wear and harder to strike away than those of economic
subordination (243–4).
Hoggart’s approach to popular culture has much in common with the approach of
Leavisism (this is most noticeable in the analysis of popular culture in the second part
of the book); both operate with a notion of cultural decline; both see education in discrimination
as a means to resist the manipulative appeal of mass culture. However,
what makes his approach different from that of Leavisism is his detailed preoccupation
with, and, above all, his clear commitment to, working-class culture. His distance from

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Leavisism is most evident in the content of his own ‘good past/bad present’ binary
opposition: instead of the organic community of the seventeenth century, his ‘good
past’ is the working-class culture of the 1930s. What Hoggart celebrates from the 1930s,
is, significantly, the very culture that the Leavisites were armed to resist. This alone
makes his approach an implicit critique of, and an academic advance on, Leavisism.
But, as Hall (1980b) points out, although Hoggart ‘refused many of [F.R.] Leavis’s
embedded cultural judgements’, he, nevertheless, in his use of Leavisite literary
methodology, ‘continued “a tradition” while seeking, in practice, to transform it’ (18).
Raymond Williams: ‘The analysis of culture’
Raymond Williams’s influence on cultural studies has been enormous. The range of his
work alone is formidable. He has made significant contributions to our understanding
of cultural theory, cultural history, television, the press, radio and advertising. Alan
O’Connor’s (1989) bibliography of Williams’s published work runs to thirty-nine
pages. His contribution is all the more remarkable when one considers his origins in
the Welsh working class (his father was a railway signalman), and that as an academic
he was Professor of Drama at Cambridge University. In this section, I will comment
only on his contribution to the founding of culturalism and its contribution to the
study of popular culture.
In ‘The analysis of culture’, Williams (2009) outlines the ‘three general categories in
the definition of culture’ (32). First, there is ‘the “ideal”, in which culture is a state or
process of human perfection, in terms of certain absolute or universal values’ (ibid.).
The role of cultural analysis, using this definition, ‘is essentially the discovery and
description, in lives and works, of those values which can be seen to compose a timeless
order, or to have permanent reference to the universal human condition’ (ibid.).
This is the definition inherited from Arnold and used by Leavisism: what he calls, in
Culture and Society, culture as an ultimate ‘court of human appeal, to be set over the
processes of practical social judgement and yet to offer itself as a mitigating and rallying
alternative’ (Williams, 1963: 17).
Second, there is the ‘documentary’ record: the surviving texts and practices of a
culture. In this definition, ‘culture is the body of intellectual and imaginative work, in
which, in a detailed way, human thought and experience are variously recorded’
(Williams, 2009: ibid.). The purpose of cultural analysis, using this definition, is one of
critical assessment. This can take a form of analysis similar to that adopted with regard
to the ‘ideal’; an act of critical sifting until the discovery of what Arnold calls ‘the best
that has been thought and said’ (see Chapter 2). It can also involve a less exalted practice:
the cultural as the critical object of interpretative description and evaluation (literary
studies is the obvious example of this practice). Finally, it can also involve a more historical,
less literary evaluative function: an act of critical reading to measure its significance
as a ‘historical document’ (historical studies is the obvious example of this practice).

Raymond Williams: ‘The analysis of culture’ 45
Third, ‘there is the “social” definition of culture, in which culture is a description of a
particular way of life’ (ibid.). The ‘social’ definition of culture is crucial to the founding
of culturalism. This definition introduces three new ways of thinking about culture. First,
the ‘anthropological’ position which sees culture as a description of a particular way of life;
second, the proposition that culture ‘expresses certain meanings and values’ (ibid.); third,
the claim that the work of cultural analysis should be the ‘clarification of the meanings
and values implicit and explicit in a particular way of life, a particular culture’ (ibid.).
Williams is aware that the kind of analysis the ‘social’ definition of culture demands,
will often ‘involve analysis of elements in the way of life that to followers of the other
definitions are not “culture” at all’ (32). Moreover, whilst such analysis might still operate
modes of evaluation of the ‘ideal’ and the ‘documentary’ type, it will also extend
to an emphasis which, from studying particular meanings and values, seeks not so
much to compare these, as a way of establishing a scale, but by studying their
modes of change to discover certain general ‘laws’ or ‘trends’, by which social and
cultural development as a whole can be better understood (32–3).
Taken together, the three points embodied in the ‘social’ definition of culture – culture
as a particular way of life, culture as expression of a particular way of life, and cultural
analysis as a method of reconstituting a particular way of life – establish both the general
perspective and the basic procedures of culturalism.
Williams, however, is reluctant to remove from analysis any of the three ways of
understanding culture: ‘there is a significant reference in each . . . and, if this is so, it is
the relations between them that should claim our attention’ (33). He describes as
‘inadequate’ and ‘unacceptable’ any definition which fails to include the other
definitions: ‘However difficult it may be in practice, we have to try to see the process as
a whole, and to relate our particular studies, if not explicitly at least by ultimate reference,
to the actual and complex organization’ (34). As he explains,
I would then define the theory of culture as the study of relationships between elements
in a whole way of life. The analysis of culture is the attempt to discover the
nature of the organization which is the complex of these relationships. Analysis of
particular works or institutions is, in this context, analysis of their essential kind of
organization, the relationships which works or institutions embody as parts of the
organization as a whole (35).
In addressing the ‘complex organization’ of culture as a particular way of life, the
purpose of cultural analysis is always to understand what a culture is expressing; ‘the
actual experience through which a culture was lived’; the ‘important common element’;
‘a particular community of experience’ (36). In short, to reconstitute what Williams
calls ‘the structure of feeling’ (ibid.). By structure of feeling, he means the shared values
of a particular group, class or society. The term is used to describe a discursive structure
that is a cross between a collective cultural unconscious and an ideology. He uses, for
example, the term to explain the way in which many nineteenth-century novels

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Chapter 3 Culturalism
employ ‘magic solutions’ to close the gap in that society between ‘the ethic and the
experience’. He gives examples of how men and women are released from loveless marriages
as a result of the convenient death or the insanity of their partners; legacies turn
up unexpectedly to overcome reverses in fortune; villains are lost in the Empire; poor
men return from the Empire bearing great riches; and those whose aspirations could
not be met by prevailing social arrangements are put on a boat to make their dreams
come true elsewhere. All these (and more) are presented as examples of a shared structure
of feeling, the unconscious and conscious working out in fictional texts of the contradictions
of nineteenth-century society. The purpose of cultural analysis is to read
the structure of feeling through the documentary record, ‘from poems to buildings and
dress-fashions’ (37). As he makes clear,
What we are looking for, always, is the actual life that the whole organization is
there to express. The significance of documentary culture is that, more clearly than
anything else, it expresses that life to us in direct terms, when the living witnesses
are silent (ibid.).
The situation is complicated by the fact that culture always exists on three levels:
We need to distinguish three levels of culture, even in its most general definition.
There is the lived culture of a particular time and place, only fully accessible to
those living in that time and place. There is the recorded culture, of every kind,
from art to the most everyday facts: the culture of a period. There is also, as the
factor connecting lived culture and period cultures, the culture of the selective
tradition (37).
Lived culture is culture as lived and experienced by people in their day-to-day existence
in a particular place and at a particular moment in time; and the only people who have
full access to this culture are those who actually lived its structure of feeling. Once the
historical moment is gone the structure of feeling begins to fragment. Cultural analysis
has access only through the documentary record of the culture. But the documentary
record itself fragments under the processes of ‘the selective tradition’ (ibid.).
Between a lived culture and its reconstitution in cultural analysis, clearly, a great deal
of detail is lost. For example, as Williams points out, nobody can claim to have read
all the novels of the nineteenth century. Instead, what we have is the specialist who can
claim perhaps to have read many hundreds; the interested academic who has read
somewhat fewer; the ‘educated reader’ who has read fewer again. This quite clear process
of selectivity does not prevent the three groups of readers from sharing a sense
of the nature of the nineteenth-century novel. Williams is of course aware that no
nineteenth-century reader would in fact have read all the novels of the nineteenth
century. His point, however, is that the nineteenth-century reader ‘had something
which . . . no later individual can wholly recover: that sense of the life within which the
novels were written, and which we now approach through our selection’ (38). For
Williams, it is crucial to understand the selectivity of cultural traditions. It always

Raymond Williams: ‘The analysis of culture’ 47
(inevitably) produces a cultural record, a cultural tradition, marked by ‘a rejection of
considerable areas of what was once a living culture’ (38). Furthermore, as he explains
in Culture and Society, ‘there will always be a tendency for this process of selection to be
related to and even governed by the interests of the class that is dominant’ (1963: 313).
Within a given society, selection will be governed by many kinds of special interests,
including class interests. Just as the actual social situation will largely govern
contemporary selection, so the development of the society, the process of historical
change, will largely determine the selective tradition. The traditional culture of
a society will always tend to correspond to its contemporary system of interests and
values, for it is not an absolute body of work but a continual selection and interpretation
(2009: 38–9).
This has quite profound ramifications for the student of popular culture. Given that
selection is invariably made on the basis of ‘contemporary interests’, and given the incidence
of many ‘reversals and rediscoveries’, it follows that ‘the relevance of past work,
in any future situation, is unforeseeable’ (39). If this is the case, it also follows that
absolute judgements about what is good and what is bad, about what is high and what
is low, in contemporary culture, should be made with a great deal less certainty, open
as they are to historical realignment in a potential whirlpool of historical contingency.
Williams advocates, as already noted, a form of cultural analysis which is conscious
that ‘the cultural tradition is not only a selection but also an interpretation’ (ibid.).
Although cultural analysis cannot reverse this, it can, by returning a text or practice to
its historical moment, show other ‘historical alternatives’ to contemporary interpretation
and ‘the particular contemporary values on which it rests’ (ibid.). In this way, we
are able to make clear distinctions between ‘the whole historical organization within
which it was expressed’ and ‘the contemporary organization within which it is used’
(ibid.). By working in this way, ‘real cultural processes will emerge’ (ibid.).
Williams’s analysis breaks with Leavisism in a number of ways. First, there is no
special place for art – it is a human activity alongside other human activities: ‘art is there,
as an activity, with the production, the trading, the politics, the raising of families’ (34).
Williams presses the case for a democratic account of culture: culture as a particular
way of life. In Culture and Society, he distinguishes between middle-class culture as ‘the
basic individualist idea and the institutions, manners, habits of thought, and intentions
which proceed from that’ and working-class culture as ‘the basic collective idea, and
the institutions, manners, habits of thought, and intentions which proceed from this’
(1963: 313). He then gives this account of the achievements of working-class culture:
The working class, because of its position, has not, since the Industrial Revolution,
produced a culture in the narrower sense. The culture which it has produced, and
which it is important to recognise, is the collective democratic institution, whether
in the trade unions, the cooperative movement, or a political party. Working-class
culture, in the stage through which it has been passing, is primarily social (in that
it has created institutions) rather than individual (in particular intellectual or

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imaginative work). When it is considered in context, it can be seen as a very
remarkable creative achievement (314).
It is when Williams insists on culture as a definition of the ‘lived experience’ of
‘ordinary’ men and women, made in their daily interaction with the texts and practices
of everyday life, that he finally breaks decisively with Leavisism. Here is the basis for a
democratic definition of culture. He takes seriously Leavis’s call for a common culture.
But the difference between Leavisism and Williams on this point is that Williams does
want a common culture, whilst Leavisism wants only a hierarchical culture of difference
and deference. Williams’s review of The Uses of Literacy indicates some of the key
differences between his own position and the traditions of Leavisism (in which he
partly locates Hoggart):
The analysis of Sunday newspapers and crime stories and romances is . . . familiar,
but, when you have come yourself from their apparent public, when you recognise
in yourself the ties that still bind, you cannot be satisfied with the older formula:
enlightened minority, degraded mass. You know how bad most ‘popular culture’
is, but you know also that the irruption of the ‘swinish multitude’, which Burke
had prophesied would trample down light and learning, is the coming to relative
power and relative justice of your own people, whom you could not if you tried
desert (1957: 424–5).
Although he still claims to recognize ‘how bad most “popular culture” is’, this is no
longer a judgement made from within an enchanted circle of certainty, policed by ‘the
older formula: enlightened minority, degraded mass’. Moreover, Williams is insistent
that we distinguish between the commodities made available by the culture industries
and what people make of these commodities. He identifies what he calls
the extremely damaging and quite untrue identification of ‘popular culture’
(commercial newspapers, magazines, entertainments, etc.) with ‘working-class
culture’. In fact the main source of this ‘popular culture’ lies outside the working
class altogether, for it is instituted, financed and operated by the commercial
bourgeoisie, and remains typically capitalist in its methods of production and
distribution. That working-class people form perhaps a majority of the consumers
of this material . . . does not, as a fact, justify this facile identification (425).
In other words, people are not reducible to the commodities they consume. Hoggart’s
problem, according to Williams, is that he ‘has taken over too many of the formulas’,
from ‘Matthew Arnold’ to ‘contemporary conservative ideas of the decay of politics in
the working class’; the result is an argument in need of ‘radical revision’ (ibid.). The
publication of ‘The analysis of culture’, together with the other chapters in The Long
Revolution, has been described by Hall (1980b) as ‘a seminal event in English post-war
intellectual life’ (19), which did much to provide the radical revision necessary to lay
the basis for a non-Leavisite study of popular culture.

E.P. Thompson: The Making of the English Working Class 49
E.P. Thompson: The Making of the English Working
Class
In the Preface to The Making of the English Working Class, E.P. Thompson states:
This book has a clumsy title, but it is one which meets its purpose. Making, because
it is a study in an active process, which owes as much to agency as conditioning.
The working class did not rise like the sun at an appointed time. It was present at
its own making (1980: 8).
The English working class, like any class, is for Thompson ‘a historical phenomenon’;
it is not a ‘structure’ or a ‘category’, but the coming together of ‘a number of disparate
and seemingly unconnected events, both in the raw material of experience and in
consciousness’; it is ‘something which in fact happens (and can be shown to happen)
in human relationships’ (ibid.). Moreover, class is not a ‘thing’, it is always a historical
relationship of unity and difference: uniting one class as against another class or
classes. As he explains: ‘class happens when some men, as a result of common experiences
(inherited or shared), feel and articulate the identity of their interests as between
themselves, and as against other men whose interests are different from (and usually
opposed to) theirs’ (8–9). The common experience of class ‘is largely determined by
the productive relations into which men are born – or enter involuntarily’ (9). However,
the consciousness of class, the translation of experience into culture, ‘is defined by
men as they live their own history, and, in the end, this is its only definition’ (10). Class
is for Thompson, then, ‘a social and cultural formation, arising from processes which
can be studied as they work themselves out over a considerable historical period’ (11).
The Making of the English Working Class details the political and cultural formation
of the English working class by approaching its subject from three different but related
perspectives. First, it reconstructs the political and cultural traditions of English radicalism
in the late eighteenth century: religious dissent, popular discontent, and the
influence of the French Revolution. Second, it focuses on the social and cultural experience
of the Industrial Revolution as it was lived by different working groups: weavers,
field labourers, cotton spinners, artisans, etc. Finally, it analyses the growth of workingclass
consciousness evidenced in the corresponding growth in a range of political,
social and cultural, ‘strongly based and self conscious working-class institutions’
(212–13). As he insists: ‘The working class made itself as much as it was made’ (213).
He draws two conclusions from his research. First, ‘when every caution has been made,
the outstanding fact of the period between 1790 and 1830 is the formation of “the
working class”’ (212). Second, he claims that ‘this was, perhaps, the most distinguished
popular culture England has known’ (914).
The Making of the English Working Class is the classic example of ‘history from below’.
Thompson’s aim is to place the ‘experience’ of the English working class as central to
any understanding of the formation of an industrial capitalist society in the decades
leading up to the 1830s. It is a history from below in the double sense suggested by

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Chapter 3 Culturalism
Gregor McLellan (1982): a history from below in that it seeks to reintroduce workingclass
experience into the historical process; and a history from below in that it insists
that the working class were the conscious agents of their own making. 8 Thompson is
working with Marx’s (1977) famous claim about the way in which men and women
make history: ‘Men make their own history, but they do not make it just as they please;
they do not make it under circumstances chosen by themselves, but under circumstances
directly encountered, given and transmitted from the past’ (10). What
Thompson does is to emphasize the first part of Marx’s claim (human agency) against
what he considers to have been an overemphasis by Marxist historians on the second
part (structural determinants). Paradoxically, or perhaps not so, he has himself been
criticized for overstressing the role of human agency – human experiences, human
values – at the expense of structural factors (see Anderson, 1980).
The Making of the English Working Class is in so many ways a monumental contribution
to social history (in size alone: the Penguin edition runs to over nine hundred pages).
What makes it significant for the student of popular culture is the nature of its historical
account. Thompson’s history is not one of abstract economic and political processes;
nor is it an account of the doings of the great and the worthy. The book is about ‘ordinary’
men and women, their experiences, their values, their ideas, their actions, their
desires: in short, popular culture as a site of resistance to those in whose interests the
Industrial Revolution was made. Hall (1980b) calls it ‘the most seminal work of social
history of the post-war period’, pointing to the way it challenges ‘the narrow, elitist
conception of “culture” enshrined in the Leavisite tradition, as well as the rather evolutionary
approach which sometimes marked Williams’s The Long Revolution’ (19–20).
In an interview a decade or so after the publication of the book, Thompson (1976)
commented on his historical method as follows: ‘If you want a generalization I would
have to say that the historian has got to be listening all the time’ (15). He is by no
means the only historian who listens; the conservative historian G.M. Young also
listens, if in a rather more selective fashion: ‘history is the conversation of people
who counted’ (quoted in McLellan, 1982: 107). What makes Thompson’s listening
radically different is the people to whom he listens. As he explains in a famous passage
from the Preface to The Making of the English Working Class:
I am seeking to rescue the poor stockinger, the Luddite cropper, the ‘obsolete’ hand
loom weaver, the ‘utopian’ artisan, and even the deluded follower of Joanna
Southcott, from the enormous condescension of posterity. Their crafts and traditions
may have been dying. Their hostility to the new industrialism may have been
backward looking. Their communitarian ideals may have been fantasies. Their
insurrectionary conspiracies may have been foolhardy. But they lived through
these times of acute social disturbance, and we did not. Their aspirations were valid
in terms of their own experience; and, if they were casualties of history, they
remain, condemned in their own lives, as casualties (1980: 12).
Before concluding this brief account of Thompson’s contribution to the study of
popular culture, it should be noted that he himself does not accept the term ‘culturalism’

Stuart Hall and Paddy Whannel: The Popular Arts 51
as a description of his work. This and other related points was the subject of a heated
‘History Workshop’ debate between Richard Johnson, Stuart Hall and Thompson himself
(see Samuel, 1981). One of the difficulties when reading the contributions to the
debate is the way that culturalism is made to carry two quite different meanings. On
the one hand, it is employed as a description of a particular methodology (this is how
I am using it here). On the other, it is used as a term of critique (usually from a more
‘traditional’ Marxist position or from the perspective of Marxist structuralism). This is
a complex issue, but as a coda to this discussion of Hoggart, Williams and Thompson,
here is a very simplified clarification: positively, culturalism is a methodology which
stresses culture (human agency, human values, human experience) as being of crucial
importance for a full sociological and historical understanding of a given social formation;
negatively, culturalism is used to suggest the employment of such assumptions
without full recognition and acknowledgement that culture is the effect of structures
beyond itself, and that these have the effect of ultimately determining, constraining
and, finally, producing, culture (human agency, human values and human experience).
Thompson disagrees strongly with the second proposition, and refutes totally any suggestion
that culturalism, regardless of the definition, can be applied to his own work.
Stuart Hall and Paddy Whannel: The Popular Arts
The ‘main thesis’ of The Popular Arts is that ‘in terms of actual quality . . . the struggle
between what is good and worthwhile and what is shoddy and debased is not a struggle
against the modern forms of communication, but a conflict within these media’ (Hall
and Whannel, 1964: 15). Hall and Whannel’s concern is with the difficulty of making
these distinctions. They set themselves the task to develop ‘a critical method for
handling . . . problems of value and evaluation’ (ibid.) in the study of popular culture.
In this task they pay specific thanks to the work of Hoggart and Williams, and passing
thanks to the key figures of Leavisism.
The book was written against a background of concern about the influence of popular
culture in the school classroom. In 1960 the National Union of Teachers (NUT)
Annual Conference passed a resolution that read in part:
Conference believes that a determined effort must be made to counteract the
debasement of standards which result from the misuse of press, radio, cinema and
television. . . . It calls especially upon those who use and control the media of mass
communication, and upon parents, to support the efforts of teachers in an attempt
to prevent the conflict which too often arises between the values inculcated in the
classroom and those encountered by young people in the world outside (quoted
in Hall and Whannel, 1964: 23).
The resolution led to the NUT Special Conference, ‘Popular culture and personal
responsibility’. One speaker at the conference, the composer Malcolm Arnold, said:

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Chapter 3 Culturalism
‘Nobody is in any way a better person morally or in any other way for liking Beethoven
more than Adam Faith. . . . Of course the person who likes both is in a very happy position
since he is able to enjoy much more in his life than a lot of other people’ (ibid.:
27). Although Hall and Whannel (1964) recognize ‘the honest intention’ in Arnold’s
remarks, they question what they call ‘the random use of Adam Faith as an example’
because, as they claim, ‘as a singer of popular songs he is by any serious standards far
down the list’. Moreover, as they explain, ‘By serious standards we mean those that
might be legitimately applied to popular music – the standards set, for example, by
Frank Sinatra or Ray Charles’ (28). What Hall and Whannel are doing here is rejecting
the arguments of both Leavisism, and the (mostly American) mass culture critique,
which claims that all high culture is good and that all popular culture is bad, for an
argument which says, on the one hand, that most high culture is good, and on the
other, contrary to Leavisism and the mass culture critique, that some popular culture is
also good – it is ultimately a question of popular discrimination.
Part of the aim of The Popular Arts, then, is to replace the ‘misleading generalizations’
of earlier attacks on popular culture by helping to facilitate popular discrimination
within and across the range of popular culture itself. Instead of worrying about the
‘effects’ of popular culture, ‘we should be seeking to train a more demanding audience’
(35). A more demanding audience, according to Hall and Whannel, is one that prefers
jazz to pop, Miles Davis to Liberace, Frank Sinatra to Adam Faith, Polish films to mainstream
Hollywood, L’Année Dernière à Marienbad to South Pacific; and knows intuitively
and instinctively that high culture (‘Shakespeare, Dickens and Lawrence’) is usually
always best. They take from Clement Greenberg (who took it from Theodor Adorno)
the idea that mass culture is always ‘pre-digested’ (our responses are predetermined
rather than the result of a genuine interaction with the text or practice), and use the
idea as a means to discriminate, not just between good and bad popular culture, but
to suggest that it can also be applied to examples of high culture: ‘The important point
about such a definition [culture as “pre-digested”] is that it cuts across the commonplace
distinctions. It applies to films but not all, to some TV but not all. It covers segments
of the traditional as well as the popular culture’ (36).
Their approach leads them to reject two common teaching strategies often encountered
when popular culture is introduced into the classroom. First, there is the defensive
strategy that introduces popular culture in order to condemn it as second-rate
culture. Second, the ‘opportunist’ strategy that embraces the popular tastes of students
in the hope of eventually leading them to better things. ‘In neither case’, they contend,
‘is there a genuine response, nor any basis for real judgements’ (37). Neither would
lead to what they insist is necessary: ‘a training in discrimination’ (ibid.). This is not
(to repeat a point made earlier) the classic discrimination of Leavisism, defending the
‘good’ high culture against the encroachments of the ‘bad’ popular culture, but discrimination
within popular culture: the necessity to discriminate within and not just
against popular culture; sifting the good popular culture from the bad popular culture.
However, although they do not believe in introducing the texts and practices of popular
culture into education ‘as steppingstones in a hierarchy of taste’ leading ultimately
to real culture, 9 they do still insist (as do Hoggart and Williams) that there is a

Stuart Hall and Paddy Whannel: The Popular Arts 53
fundamental categorical difference – a difference of value – between high and popular
culture. Nevertheless, the difference is not necessarily a question of superiority/
inferiority; it is more about different kinds of satisfaction: it is not useful to say that
the music of Cole Porter is inferior to that of Beethoven. The music of Porter and
Beethoven is not of equal value, but Porter was not making an unsuccessful attempt to
create music comparable to Beethoven’s (39).
Not unequal, but of different value, is a very difficult distinction to unload. What it
seems to suggest is that we must judge texts and practices on their own terms: ‘recognise
different aims . . . assess varying achievements with defined limits’ (38). Such a
strategy will open up discrimination to a whole range of cultural activity and prevent
the defensive ghettoization of high against the rest. Although they acknowledge the
‘immense debt’ they owe to the ‘pioneers’ of Leavisism, and accept more or less the
Leavisite view (modified by a reading of William Morris) of the organic culture of
the past, they, nevertheless, in a classic left-Leavisite move, reject the conservatism and
pessimism of Leavisism, and insist, against calls for ‘resistance by an armed and conscious
minority’ to the culture of the present (Q.D. Leavis), that ‘if we wish to re-create
a genuine popular culture we must seek out the points of growth within the society
that now exists’ (39). They claim that by adopting ‘a critical and evaluative attitude’
(46) and an awareness that it is ‘foolish to make large claims for this popular culture’
(40), it is possible ‘to break with the false distinction . . . between the “serious” and the
“popular” and between “entertainment” and “values”’ (47).
This leads Hall and Whannel to what we might call the second part of their thesis:
the necessity to recognize within popular culture a distinct category they call ‘popular
art’. Popular art is not art that has attempted and failed to be ‘real’ art, but art which
operates within the confines of the popular. Using the best of music hall, especially
Marie Lloyd, as an example (but also thinking of the early Charlie Chaplin, The Goon
Show and jazz musicians), they offer this definition:
while retaining much in common with folk art, it became an individual art, existing
within a literate commercial culture. Certain ‘folk’ elements were carried
through, even though the artist replaced the anonymous folk artist, and the ‘style’
was that of the performer rather than a communal style. The relationships here
are more complex – the art is no longer simply created by the people from below
– yet the interaction, by way of the conventions of presentation and feeling, reestablishes
the rapport. Although this art is no longer directly the product of the
‘way of life’ of an ‘organic community’, and is not ‘made by the people’, it is still,
in a manner not applicable to the high arts, a popular art, for the people (59).
According to this argument, good popular culture (‘popular art’) is able to re-establish
the relationship (‘rapport’) between performer and audience that was lost with the
advent of industrialization and urbanization. As they explain:
Popular art . . . is essentially a conventional art which re-states, in an intense form,
values and attitudes already known; which measures and reaffirms, but brings to

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Chapter 3 Culturalism
this something of the surprise of art as well as the shock of recognition. Such art
has in common with folk art the genuine contact between audience and performer:
but it differs from folk art in that it is an individualised art, the art of the known
performer. The audience as community has come to depend on the performer’s
skills, and on the force of a personal style, to articulate its common values and
interpret its experiences (66).
One problem with their distinction between art and popular art is that it depends
for its clarity on art as ‘surprise’, but this is art as defined in modernist terms. Before the
modernist revolution in art, everything here claimed for popular art could equally have
been claimed for art in general. They make a further distinction to include ‘mass art’.
There is popular art (good and bad), and there is art (good and not so good), and there
is mass art. Mass art is a ‘corrupt’ version of popular art; here they adopt uncritically
the standard criticisms made of mass culture: it is formulaic, escapist, aesthetically
worthless, emotionally unrewarding. Rather than confront the mass culture critique,
they seek to privilege certain of the texts and practices of popular culture and thus
remove them from the condemnation of the critics of mass culture. In order to do this
they introduce a new category – the popular arts. Popular art is mass culture that has
risen above its origins. Unlike ‘average films or pop music [which] are processed mass
art’, popular art is, for example, the ‘best cinema’, the ‘most advanced jazz’ (78). They
claim that, ‘Once the distinction between popular and mass art has been made, we find
we have by-passed the cruder generalizations about “mass culture”, and are faced with
the full range of material offered by the media’ (ibid.).
The main focus of The Popular Arts is on the textual qualities of popular culture.
However, when Hall and Whannel turn to questions of youth culture they find it necessary
to discuss the interaction between text and audience. Moreover, they recognize
that to do full justice to the relationship, they have to include other aspects of teenage
life: ‘work, politics, the relation to the family, social and moral beliefs and so on’ (269).
This of course begs the question why this is not also necessary when other aspects of
popular culture are discussed. Pop music culture – songs, magazines, concerts, festivals,
comics, interviews with pop stars, films, etc. – helps to establish a sense of identity
among youth:
The culture provided by the commercial entertainment market . . . plays a crucial
role. It mirrors attitudes and sentiments which are already there, and at the same
time provides an expressive field and a set of symbols through which these attitudes
can be projected (276).
Moreover, pop songs
reflect adolescent difficulties in dealing with a tangle of emotional and sexual
problems. They invoke the need to experience life directly and intensely. They

Stuart Hall and Paddy Whannel: The Popular Arts 55
express the drive for security in an uncertain and changeable emotional world. The
fact that they are produced for a commercial market means that the songs and
settings lack a certain authenticity. Yet they dramatize authentic feelings. They
express vividly the adolescent emotional dilemma (280).
Pop music exhibits ‘emotional realism’; young men and women ‘identify with these
collective representations and . . . use them as guiding fictions. Such symbolic fictions
are the folklore by means of which the teenager, in part, shapes and composes his
mental picture of the world’ (281). Hall and Whannel also identify the way in which
teenagers use particular ways of talking, particular places to go, particular ways of dancing,
and particular ways of dressing, to establish distance from the world of adults.
They describe dress style, for example, as ‘a minor popular art . . . used to express certain
contemporary attitudes . . . for example, a strong current of social nonconformity
and rebelliousness’ (282). This line of investigation would come to full fruition in the
work of the Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies, carried out during the 1970s,
under the directorship of Hall himself. But here Hall and Whannel draw back from the
full force of the possibilities opened up by their enquiries; anxious that an ‘anthropological
. . . slack relativism’, with its focus on the functionality of pop music culture,
would prevent them from posing questions of value and quality, about likes (‘are those
likes enough?’) and needs (‘are the needs healthy ones?’) and taste (‘perhaps tastes can
be extended’) (296).
In their discussion of pop music culture, they concede that the claim that ‘the
picture of young people as innocents exploited’ by the pop music industry ‘is oversimplified’
(ibid.). Against this, they argue that there is very often conflict between the
use made of a text, or a commodity that is turned into a text (see discussion of the
difference in Chapter 10) by an audience, and the use intended by the producers.
Significantly, they observe, ‘This conflict is particularly marked in the field of teenage
entertainments . . . [although] it is to some extent common to the whole area of mass
entertainment in a commercial setting’ (270). The recognition of the potential conflict
between commodities and their use leads Hall and Whannel to a formulation that
is remarkably similar to the cultural studies appropriation (led by Hall himself) of
Gramsci’s concept of hegemony (see Chapter 4): ‘Teenage culture is a contradictory
mixture of the authentic and manufactured: it is an area of self-expression for the
young and a lush grazing pasture for the commercial providers’ (276).
As we noted earlier, Hall and Whannel compare pop music unfavourably with
jazz. They claim that jazz is ‘infinitely richer . . . both aesthetically and emotionally’
(311). They also claim that the comparison is ‘much more rewarding’ than the more
usual comparison between pop music and classical music, as both jazz and pop are
popular musics. Now all this may be true, but what is the ultimate purpose of the
comparison? In the case of classical against pop music, it is always to show the
banality of pop music and to say something about those who consume it. Is Hall
and Whannel’s comparison fundamentally any different? Here is their justification for
the comparison:

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Chapter 3 Culturalism
The point behind such comparisons ought not to be simply to wean teenagers
away from the juke-box heroes, but to alert them to the severe limitations and
ephemeral quality of music which is so formula dominated and so directly attuned
to the standards set by the commercial market. It is a genuine widening of sensibility
and emotional range which we should be working for – an extension
of tastes which might lead to an extension of pleasure. The worst thing which
we would say of pop music is not that it is vulgar, or morally wicked, but, more
simply, that much of it is not very good (311–12).
Despite the theoretical suggestiveness of much of their analysis (especially their
identification of the contradictions of youth culture), and despite their protests to the
contrary, their position on pop music culture is a position still struggling to free itself
from the theoretical constraints of Leavisism: teenagers should be persuaded that their
taste is deplorable and that by listening to jazz instead of pop music they might break
out of imposed and self-imposed limitations, widen their sensibilities, broaden their
emotional range, and perhaps even increase their pleasure. In the end, Hall and
Whannel’s position seems to drift very close to the teaching strategy they condemn as
‘opportunist’ – in that they seem to suggest that because most school students do not
have access, for a variety of reasons, to the best that has been thought and said, they
can instead be given critical access to the best that has been thought and said within
the popular arts of the new mass media: jazz and good films will make up for the
absence of Beethoven and Shakespeare. As they explain,
This process – the practical exclusion of groups and classes in society from the
selective tradition of the best that has been and is being produced in the culture –
is especially damaging in a democratic society, and applies to both the traditional
and new forms of high art. However, the very existence of this problem makes it
even more important that some of the media which are capable of communicating
work of a serious and significant kind should remain open and available, and that
the quality of popular work transmitted there should be of the highest order possible,
on its own terms (75).
Where they do break significantly with Leavisism is in that they advocate training
in critical awareness, not as a means of defence against popular culture, but as a means
to discriminate between what is good and what is bad within popular culture. It is
a move which was to lead to a decisive break with Leavisism when the ideas of Hall
and Whannel, and those of Hoggart, Williams and Thompson, were brought together
under the banner of culturalism at the Birmingham University Centre for Contemporary
Cultural Studies.

The Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies
The Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies 57
In the introduction to The Long Revolution, Williams (1965) regrets the fact that ‘there
is no academic subject within which the questions I am interested in can be followed
through; I hope one day there might be’ (10). Three years after the publication of these
comments, Hoggart established the Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies at the
University of Birmingham. In the inaugural lecture, ‘Schools of English and contemporary
society’, establishing the Centre, Hoggart (1970) states: ‘It is hard to listen to a
programme of pop songs . . . without feeling a complex mixture of attraction and
repulsion’ (258). Once the work of the Centre began its transition, as Michael Green
(1996) describes it, ‘from Hoggart to Gramsci’ (49), especially under the directorship
of Hall, we find emerging a very different attitude towards pop music culture, and popular
culture in general. Many of the researchers who followed Hoggart into the Centre
(including myself) did not find listening to pop music in the least repulsive; on the
contrary, we found it profoundly attractive. We focused on a different Hoggart, one
critical of taking what is said at face value, a critic who proposed a procedure that
would eventually resonate through the reading practices of cultural studies:
we have to try and see beyond the habits to what the habits stand for, to see through
the statements to what the statements really mean (which may be the opposite of
the statements themselves), to detect the differing pressures of emotion behind
idiomatic phrases and ritualistic observances. . . . [And to see the way] mass publications
[for example] connect with commonly accepted attitudes, how they are
altering those attitudes, and how they are meeting resistance (1990: 17–19).
Culturalists study cultural texts and practices in order to reconstitute or reconstruct
the experiences, values, etc. – the ‘structure of feeling’ of particular groups or classes
or whole societies, in order to better understand the lives of those who lived the
culture. In different ways Hoggart’s example, Williams’s social definition of culture,
Thompson’s act of historical rescue, Hall and Whannel’s ‘democratic’ extension of
Leavisism – each contribution discussed here argues that popular culture (defined as
the lived culture of ordinary men and women) is worth studying. It is on the basis
of these and other assumptions of culturalism, channelled through the traditions of
English, sociology and history, that British cultural studies began. However, research at
the Centre quickly brought culturalism into complex and often contradictory and
conflictual relations with imports of French structuralism (see Chapter 6), in turn
bringing the two approaches into critical dialogue with developments in ‘western
Marxism’, especially the work of Louis Althusser and Antonio Gramsci (see Chapter 4).
It is from this complex and critical mixture that the ‘post-disciplinary’ field of British
cultural studies was born.

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Chapter 3 Culturalism
Further reading
Storey, John (ed.), Cultural Theory and Popular Culture: A Reader, 4th edition, Harlow:
Pearson Education, 2009. This is the companion volume to this book. It contains
examples of most of the work discussed here. This book and the companion Reader
are supported by an interactive website (www.pearsoned.co.uk/storey). The website
has links to other useful sites and electronic resources.
Chambers, Iain, Popular Culture: The Metropolitan Experience, London: Routledge, 1986.
An interesting and informed survey – mostly from the perspective of culturalism –
of the rise of urban popular culture since the 1880s.
Clarke, John, Chas Critcher and Richard Johnson (eds), Working Class Culture: Studies
in History and Theory, London: Hutchinson, 1979. Some good essays from a culturalist
perspective. See especially Richard Johnson’s ‘Three problematics: elements of
a theory of working class culture’.
Eagleton, Terry (ed.), Raymond Williams: Critical Perspectives, Cambridge: Polity Press,
1989. Essays in critical appreciation of the work of Raymond Williams.
Hall, Stuart and Tony Jefferson (eds), Resistance Through Rituals, London: Hutchinson,
1976. The Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies’ seminal account of youth subcultures.
Chapter 1 provides a classic statement of the CCCS’s version of culturalism.
Hall, Stuart, Dorothy Hobson, Andrew Lowe and Paul Willis (eds), Culture, Media,
Language, London: Hutchinson, 1980. A selection of essays covering almost the first
ten years of the CCCS’s published work. See especially Chapter 1, Stuart Hall’s
important account of the theoretical development of work at the CCCS: ‘Cultural
studies and the Centre: some problematics and problems’.
Jones, Paul, Raymond Williams’s Sociology of Culture: A Critical Reconstruction,
Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2004. An interesting account. But its insistence on claiming
Williams for sociology distorts his place in cultural studies.
Kaye, Harvey J. and Keith McClelland (eds), E.P. Thompson: Critical Perspectives, Oxford:
Polity Press, 1990. A collection of critical essays on different aspects of Thompson’s
contribution to the study of history; some useful references to The Making of the
English Working Class.
O’Connor, Alan (ed.), Raymond Williams: Writing, Culture, Politics, Oxford: Basil Blackwell,
1989. Provides a critical survey of Williams’s work. Excellent bibliography.

4 Marxisms
Classical Marxism
Marxism is a difficult and contentious body of work. But it is also more than this: it is
a body of revolutionary theory with the purpose of changing the world. As Marx
(1976b) famously said: ‘The philosophers have only interpreted the world, in various
ways; the point is to change it’ (65). This makes Marxist analysis political in a quite
specific way. But this is not to suggest that other methods and approaches are apolitical;
on the contrary, Marxism insists that all are ultimately political. As the American
Marxist cultural critic Fredric Jameson (1981) puts it, ‘the political perspective [is] the
absolute horizon of all reading and all interpretation’ (17).
The Marxist approach to culture insists that texts and practices must be analysed in
relation to their historical conditions of production (and in some versions, the changing
conditions of their consumption and reception). What makes the Marxist methodology
different from other ‘historical’ approaches to culture is the Marxist conception
of history. The fullest statement of the Marxist approach to history is contained in the
Preface and Introduction to A Contribution to a Critique of Political Economy. Here Marx
outlines the now famous ‘base/superstructure’ account of social and historical development.
In Chapter 1, I discussed this formulation briefly in relation to different concepts
of ideology. I will now explain the formulation in more detail and demonstrate
how it might be used to understand the ‘determinations’ that influence the production
and consumption of popular culture.
Marx argues that each significant period in history is constructed around a particular
‘mode of production’: that is, the way in which a society is organized (i.e. slave, feudal,
capitalist) to produce the necessaries of life – food, shelter, etc. In general terms, each
mode of production produces: (i) specific ways of obtaining the necessaries of life; (ii)
specific social relationships between workers and those who control the mode of production,
and (iii) specific social institutions (including cultural ones). At the heart of
this analysis is the claim that how a society produces its means of existence (its particular
‘mode of production’) ultimately determines the political, social and cultural
shape of that society and its possible future development. As Marx explains, ‘The mode
of production of material life conditions the social, political and intellectual life process

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Chapter 4 Marxisms
in general’ (1976a: 3). This claim is based on certain assumptions about the relationship
between ‘base’ and ‘superstructure’. It is on this relationship – between ‘base’
and ‘superstructure’ – that the Marxist account of culture rests.
The ‘base’ consists of a combination of the ‘forces of production’ and the ‘relations
of production’. The forces of production refer to the raw materials, the tools, the technology,
the workers and their skills, etc. The relations of production refer to the class
relations of those engaged in production. That is, each mode of production, besides
being different, say, in terms of its basis in agrarian or industrial production, is also different
in that it produces particular relations of production: the slave mode produces
master/slave relations; the feudal mode produces lord/peasant relations; the capitalist
mode produces bourgeois/proletariat relations. It is in this sense that one’s class position
is determined by one’s relationship to the mode of production.
The ‘superstructure’ (which develops in conjunction with a specific mode of
production) consists of institutions (political, legal, educational, cultural, etc.), and
‘definite forms of social consciousness’ (political, religious, ethical, philosophical, aesthetic,
cultural, etc.) generated by these institutions. The relationship between base and
superstructure is twofold. On the one hand, the superstructure both expresses and legitimates
the base. On the other, the base is said to ‘condition’ or ‘determine’ the content
and form of the superstructure. This relationship can be understood in a range of different
ways. It can be seen as a mechanical relationship (‘economic determinism’) of
cause and effect: what happens in the superstructure is a passive reflection of what is
happening in the base. This often results in a vulgar Marxist ‘reflection theory’ of culture,
in which the politics of a text or practice are read off from, or reduced to, the
economic conditions of its production. The relationship can also be seen as the setting
of limits, the providing of a specific framework in which some developments are probable
and others unlikely.
After Marx’s death in 1883, Frederick Engels, friend and collaborator, found
himself having to explain, through a series of letters, many of the subtleties of Marxism
to younger Marxists who, in their revolutionary enthusiasm, threatened to reduce
it to a form of economic determinism. Here is part of his famous letter to Joseph
Bloch:
According to the materialist conception of history, the ultimately determining element
in history is the production and reproduction of real life. Neither Marx nor I
have ever asserted more than this. Therefore if somebody twists this into saying
that the economic factor is the only determining one, he is transforming that
proposition into a meaningless, abstract, absurd phrase. The economic situation is
the basis, but the various components of the superstructure . . . also exercise their
influence upon the course of the historical struggles and in many cases determine
their form. . . . We make our own history, but, first of all, under very definite
assumptions and conditions. Among these the economic ones are ultimately decisive.
But the political ones, etc., and indeed even the traditions which haunt
human minds also play a part, although not the decisive one (2009: 61).

Classical Marxism 61
What Engels claims is that the economic base produces the superstructural terrain
(this terrain and not that), but that the form of activity that takes place there is determined
not just by the fact that the terrain was produced and is reproduced by the economic
base (although this clearly sets limits and influences outcomes), but by the
interaction of the institutions and the participants as they occupy the terrain. Therefore,
although texts and practices are never the ‘primary force’ in history, they can be active
agents in historical change or the servants of social stability.
Marx and Engels (2009) claim that, ‘The ideas of the ruling class are in every epoch
the ruling ideas, i.e. the class which is the ruling material force in society, is at the
same time its ruling intellectual force’ (58). What they mean by this is that the dominant
class, on the basis of its ownership of, and control over, the means of material
production, is virtually guaranteed to have control over the means of intellectual production.
However, this does not mean that the ideas of the ruling class are simply
imposed on subordinate classes. A ruling class is ‘compelled . . . to represent its interest
as the common interest of all the members of society . . . to give its ideas the form
of universality, and represent them as the only rational, universally valid ones’ (59).
Given the uncertainty of this project, ideological struggle is almost inevitable. During
periods of social transformation it becomes chronic: as Marx (1976a) points out, it is
in the ‘ideological forms’ of the superstructure (which include the texts and practices of
popular culture) that men and women ‘become conscious of . . . conflict and fight it
out’ (4).
A classical Marxist approach to popular culture would above all else insist that to
understand and explain a text or practice it must always be situated in its historical
moment of production, analysed in terms of the historical conditions that produced it.
There are dangers here: historical conditions are ultimately economic; therefore cultural
analysis can quickly collapse into economic analysis (the cultural becomes a
passive reflection of the economic). It is crucial, as Engels and Marx warn, and, as
Thompson demonstrates (see Chapter 3), to keep in play a subtle dialectic between
‘agency’ and ‘structure’. For example, a full analysis of nineteenth-century stage melodrama
would have to weave together into focus both the economic changes that produced
its audience and the theatrical traditions that produced its form. The same also
holds true for a full analysis of music hall. Although in neither instance should performance
be reduced to changes in the economic structure of society, what would be
insisted on is that a full analysis of stage melodrama or music hall would not be possible
without reference to the changes in theatre attendance brought about by changes
in the economic structure of society. It is these changes, a Marxist analysis would argue,
which ultimately produced the conditions of possibility for the performance of a play
like My Poll and My Partner Joe, 10 and for the emergence and success of a performer like
Marie Lloyd. In this way, then, a Marxist analysis would insist that ultimately, however
indirectly, there is nevertheless a real and fundamental relationship between the emergence
of stage melodrama and music hall and changes that took place in the capitalist
mode of production. I have made a similar argument about the invention of the ‘traditional’
English Christmas in the nineteenth century (Storey, 2009b).

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Chapter 4 Marxisms
The Frankfurt School
The Frankfurt School is the name given to a group of German intellectuals associated
with the Institute for Social Research at the University of Frankfurt. The Institute was
established in 1923. Following the coming to power of Hitler in 1933, it moved to
New York, attaching itself to the University of Columbia. In 1949 it moved back to
Germany. ‘Critical Theory’ is the name given to the Institute’s critical mix of Marxism
and psychoanalysis. The Institute’s work on popular culture is mostly associated with
the writings of Theodor Adorno, Walter Benjamin, Max Horkheimer, Leo Lowenthal
and Herbert Marcuse.
In 1944 Theodor Adorno and Max Horkheimer (1979) coined the term ‘culture
industry’ to designate the products and processes of mass culture. The products of the
culture industry, they claim, are marked by two features: homogeneity, ‘film, radio and
magazines make up a system which is uniform as a whole and in every part . . . all mass
culture is identical’ (120–1); and predictability:
As soon as the film begins, it is quite clear how it will end, and who will be
rewarded, punished, or forgotten. In light music [popular music], once the trained
ear has heard the first notes of the hit song, it can guess what is coming and feel
flattered when it does come. . . . The result is a constant reproduction of the same
thing (125, 134).
Whereas Arnold and Leavisism had worried that popular culture represented a threat
to cultural and social authority, the Frankfurt School argue that it actually produces the
opposite effect; it maintains social authority. Where Arnold and Leavis saw ‘anarchy’,
the Frankfurt School see only ‘conformity’: a situation in which ‘the deceived masses’
(133) are caught in a ‘circle of manipulation and retroactive need in which the unity
of the system grows ever stronger’ (121). Here is Adorno reading an American situation
comedy about a young schoolteacher who is both underpaid [some things do
not change], and continually fined by her school principal. As a result, she is without
money and therefore without food. The humour of the storyline consists in her various
attempts to secure a meal at the expense of friends and acquaintances. In his reading
of this situation comedy, Adorno is guided by the assumption that whilst it is
always difficult, if not impossible, to establish the unmistakable ‘message’ of a work of
‘authentic’ culture, the ‘hidden message’ of a piece of mass culture is not at all difficult
to discern. According to Adorno (1991a), ‘the script implies’:
If you are humorous, good natured, quick witted, and charming as she is, do not
worry about being paid a starvation wage. . . . In other words, the script is a shrewd
method of promoting adjustment to humiliating conditions by presenting them as
objectively comical and by giving a picture of a person who experiences even her
own inadequate position as an object of fun apparently free of any resentment
(143–4).

The Frankfurt School 63
This is one way of reading this TV comedy. But it is by no means the only way.
Bertolt Brecht, Benjamin’s close friend (considered to be ‘crude’ by Adorno), might
have offered another way of reading, one that implies a less passive audience. Discussing
his own play, Mother Courage and Her Children, Brecht (1978) suggests, ‘Even if
Courage learns nothing else at least the audience can, in my view, learn something by
observing her’ (229). The same point can be made against Adorno with reference to the
schoolteacher’s behaviour.
Leo Lowenthal (1961) contends that the culture industry, by producing a culture
marked by ‘standardisation, stereotype, conservatism, mendacity, manipulated consumer
goods’ (11), has worked to depoliticize the working class – limiting its horizon
to political and economic goals that could be realized within the oppressive and
exploitative framework of capitalist society. He maintains that, ‘Whenever revolutionary
tendencies show a timid head, they are mitigated and cut short by a false
fulfilment of wish-dreams, like wealth, adventure, passionate love, power and sensationalism
in general’ (ibid.). In short, the culture industry discourages the ‘masses’
from thinking beyond the confines of the present. As Herbert Marcuse (1968a) claims
in One Dimensional Man:
the irresistible output of the entertainment and information industry [the culture
industry] carry with them prescribed attitudes and habits, certain intellectual and
emotional reactions which bind the consumers more or less pleasantly to the producers
and, through the latter, to the whole. The products indoctrinate and manipulate;
they promote a false consciousness which is immune against its falsehood
. . . it becomes a way of life. It is a good way of life – much better than before – and
as a good way of life, it militates against qualitative change. Thus emerges a pattern
of one-dimensional thought and behaviour in which ideas, aspirations, and objectives
that, by their content, transcend the established universe of discourse and
action are either repelled or reduced to terms of this universe (26–7).
In other words, by supplying the means to the satisfaction of certain needs, capitalism
is able to prevent the formation of more fundamental desires. The culture industry thus
stunts the political imagination.
As with Arnold and Leavisism, art or high culture is seen to be working differently.
It embodies ideals denied by capitalism. As such it offers an implicit critique of
capitalist society, an alternative, utopian vision. ‘Authentic’ culture, according to
Horkheimer (1978), has taken over the utopian function of religion: to keep alive the
human desire for a better world beyond the confines of the present; it carries the key
to unlock the prison-house established by the development of mass culture by the
capitalist culture industry (5). But increasingly the processes of the culture industry
threaten the radical potential of ‘authentic’ culture. The culture industry increasingly
flattens out what remains of
the antagonism between culture and social reality through the obliteration of the
oppositional, alien, and transcendent elements in the higher culture by virtue of which

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Chapter 4 Marxisms
it constituted another dimension of reality. This liquidation of two-dimensional
culture takes place not through the denial and rejection of the ‘cultural values’, but
through their wholesale incorporation into the established order, through their
reproduction and display on a massive scale (Marcuse, 1968a: 58).
Therefore, the better future promised by ‘authentic’ culture is no longer in contradiction
with the unhappy present – a spur to make the better future; culture now
confirms that this is the better future – here and now – the only better future. It offers
‘fulfilment’ instead of the promotion of ‘desire’. Marcuse holds to the hope that the
‘most advanced images and positions’ of ‘authentic’ culture may still resist ‘absorption’
and ‘continue to haunt the consciousness with the possibility of their rebirth’ in a
better tomorrow (60). He also hopes that one day those on the margins of society, ‘the
outcasts and outsiders’ (61), who are out of reach of the full grasp of the culture industry,
will undo the defeats, fulfil the hopes, and make capitalism keep all its promises in
a world beyond capitalism. Or, as Horkheimer (1978) observes,
One day we may learn that in the depths of their hearts, the masses . . . secretly
knew the truth and disbelieved the lie, like catatonic patients who make known
only at the end of their trance that nothing had escaped them. Therefore it may not
be entirely senseless to continue speaking a language that is not easily understood
(17).
But, as Adorno (1991b) points out, mass culture is a difficult system to challenge:
Today anyone who is incapable of talking in the prescribed fashion, that is of
effortlessly reproducing the formulas, conventions and judgments of mass culture
as if they were his own, is threatened in his very existence, suspected of being an
idiot or an intellectual (79).
The culture industry, in its search for profits and cultural homogeneity, deprives
‘authentic’ culture of its critical function, its mode of negation – ‘[its] Great Refusal’
(Marcuse, 1968a: 63). Commodification (sometimes understood by other critics as
‘commercialization’) devalues ‘authentic’ culture, making it too accessible by turning it
into yet another saleable commodity.
The neo-conservative critics of leftist critics of mass culture ridicule the protest
against Bach as background music in the kitchen, against Plato and Hegel, Shelley
and Baudelaire, Marx and Freud in the drugstore. Instead, they insist on recognition
of the fact that the classics have left the mausoleum and come to life again,
that people are just so much more educated. True, but coming to life as classics,
they come to life as other than themselves; they are deprived of their antagonistic
force, of the estrangement which was the very dimension of their truth. The intent
and function of these works have thus fundamentally changed. If they once stood
in contradiction to the status quo, this contradiction is now flattened out (63–4).

The Frankfurt School 65
It is not difficult to think of examples of this process (whether or not we read them in
quite the same way, leftist or neo-conservative). In the 1960s, a bedsit without a poster
of Che Guevara was hardly furnished at all. Was the poster a sign of a commitment to
revolutionary politics or a commitment to the latest fashion (or was it a complicated
mixture of both)? Bennett (1977) provides a telling example of an advertisement
inserted in The Times in 1974:
an advertisement which consisted of a full page colour reproduction of Matisse’s
Le Pont, below which there appeared the legend: ‘Business is our life, but life isn’t
all business.’ Profoundly contradictory, what was ostensibly opposed to economic
life was made to become a part of it, what was separate became assimilated since
any critical dimension which might have pertained to Matisse’s painting was
eclipsed by its new and unsolicited function as an advertisement for the wares of
finance capital (45).
We might also think of the way opera and classical music is used to sell anything
from bread to expensive motorcars (for examples see Table 4.1). Is it possible, for
instance, to hear the second movement from Dvoqák’s New World Symphony, without
conjuring up an image of Hovis bread?
It is not that Marcuse or the other members of the Frankfurt School object to the
‘democratization’ of culture, only that they believe that the culture industry’s ‘assimilation
is historically premature; it establishes cultural equality while preserving domination’
(Marcuse, 1968a: 64). In short, the democratization of culture results in the
blocking of the demand for full democracy; it stabilizes the prevailing social order.
According to the Frankfurt School, work and leisure under capitalism form a compelling
relationship: the effects of the culture industry are guaranteed by the nature of
work; the work process secures the effects of the culture industry. The function of the
culture industry is therefore, ultimately, to organize leisure time in the same way as
industrialization has organized work time. Work under capitalism stunts the senses;
the culture industry continues the process: ‘The escape from everyday drudgery which
the whole culture industry promises . . . [is a] paradise ...[of] the same old drudgery . . .
escape . . . [is] predesigned to lead back to the starting point. Pleasure promotes the
resignation which it ought to help to forget’ (Adorno and Horkheimer, 1979: 142). In
short, work leads to mass culture; mass culture leads back to work. Similarly, art or
‘authentic’ culture circulated by the culture industry operates in the same way. Only
‘authentic’ culture operating outside the confines of the culture industry could ever
hope to break the cycle.
To make more concrete these general points, I will now examine a specific example
of the Frankfurt School’s approach to popular culture – Adorno’s (2009) essay, ‘On
popular music’. In the essay he makes three specific claims about popular music. First,
he claims that it is ‘standardised’. ‘Standardisation’ as Adorno points out, ‘extends from
the most general features to the most specific ones’ (64). Once a musical and/or lyrical
pattern has proved successful it is exploited to commercial exhaustion, culminating
in ‘the crystallisation of standards’ (ibid.). Moreover, details from one popular song

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Chapter 4 Marxisms
Table 4.1 Depriving ‘authentic’ culture of its critical function.
The Use of Opera and Classical Music in Advertisements
Bach: Suite No. 3 in D – Hamlet Cigars
Bach: Sleepers Awake! – Lloyds Bank
Bach: Harpsichord Concerto in F minor –
NASDAQ
Beethoven: Symphony No. 6 in F – Blueband
Margarine
Beethoven: Für Elise – Heinz Spaghetti/Uncle
Ben’s rice
Bellini: Norma – Ford Mondeo
Boccherini: Minuet – Save and Prosper
Building Society
Britten: Simple Symphony Opus 4 – Royal Bank
of Scotland
Debussy: Suite bergamasque – Boursin Cheese
Delibes: Lakmé – British Airways/Basmati Rice/
Ryvita/IBM Computers/Kleenex tissues
Delibes: Coppelia – Jus-Rol
Dukas: The Sorcerer’s Apprentice – Fiesta
Towels/Sun Liquid/Royal Bank of Scotland/
Philips/DCC
Dvocák: New World Symphony – Hovis Bread
Fauré: Requiem Opus 48 – Lurpak Butter
Gluck: Orfeo ed Euridice – Comfort Fabric
Softener
Grieg: Peer Gynt – Nescafe/AEG/Alton Towers
Handel: Serse – Rover
Handel: Solomon – Woolworths
Holst: The Planet Suite – Dulux Weathershield
Khachaturian: Spartacus – Nescafe
Mascagni: Cavalleria rusticana – Kleenex
tissues/Stella Artois/Baci Chocolates
Mozart: Piano Concerto No. 21 – Aer Lingus
Mozart: The Marriage of Figaro – Citroën ZX
Mozart: Cosí fan tutte – Mercedes Benz
Mozart: Horn Concerto No. 4 – Vauxhall Carlton
Mussorgsky: Night on a Bare Mountain –
Maxell Tapes
Offenbach: Tales of Hoffmann – Bailey’s Irish
Cream
Offenbach: Orpheus in the Underworld – Bio
Speed Weed
Orff: Carmina Burana – Old Spice/Carling Black
Label/Fiat Marea
Pachelbel: Canon in D – Thresher Wines
Prokofiev: Peter and the Wolf – Vauxhall Astra
Prokofiev: Romeo and Juliet – Chanel L’Egoiste
Puccini: Madama Butterfly – Twinings tea/
Del Monte orange juice
Puccini: Gianni Schicchi – Phillips DCC
Puccini: La Bohème – Sony Walkman
Puccini: Tosca – FreeServe
Ravel: Boléro – Ryvita
Rimsky-Korsakov: Tsar Saltan – Black and
Decker
Rossini: The Barber of Seville – Ragu Pasta
Sauce/Fiat Strada/Braun cordless shavers
Saint-Saëns: Carnival of the Animals – Tesco
Satie: Gymnopédie No. 3 – Bourneville
Chocolate/Strepsils lozenges
Schumann: Scenes from Childhood –
Chocolate Break
Smetana: Má Vlast – Peugeot 605
J Strauss: Morning Papers Waltz – TSB
Tchaikovsky: The Nutcracker Suite – Reactolite
sunglasses/Cadbury’s Fruit and
Nut/Hellmann’s Mayonnaise
Verdi: Aida – Diet Pepsi/Michelob/Egypt
Verdi: Il Trovatore – Ragu Pasta Sauce
Verdi: La Forza del Destino – Stella Artois
Verdi: Nabucco – British Airways
Verdi: Rigoletto – Ragu Pasta Sauce/Little
Caesar’s Pizza
Vivaldi: The Four Seasons – Chanel 19
perfume/Kingsmill Bread/Citroën BX/Braun
can be interchanged with details from another. Unlike the organic structure of ‘serious
music’, where each detail expresses the whole, popular music is mechanical in the
sense that a given detail can be shifted from one song to another without any real effect
on the structure as a whole. In order to conceal standardization, the music industry

The Frankfurt School 67
engages in what Adorno calls ‘pseudo-individualization’: ‘Standardisation of song hits
keeps the customers in line by doing their listening for them, as it were. Pseudoindividualization,
for its part, keeps them in line by making them forget that what they
listen to is already listened to for them, or “pre-digested”’ (69).
Adorno’s second claim is that popular music promotes passive listening. As already
noted, work under capitalism is dull and therefore promotes the search for escape,
but, because it is also dulling, it leaves little energy for real escape – the demands of
‘authentic’ culture. Instead refuge is sought in forms such as popular music – the consumption
of which is always passive, and endlessly repetitive, confirming the world as
it is. Whereas ‘serious’ music (Beethoven, for example) plays to the pleasure of the
imagination, offering an engagement with the world as it could be, popular music is the
‘non-productive correlate’ (70) to life in the office or on the factory floor. The ‘strain
and boredom’ of work lead men and women to the ‘avoidance of effort’ in their leisure
time (ibid.). Adorno makes it all sound like the hopeless ritual of a heroin addict (as
taken from the detective genre he detested so much). Denied ‘novelty’ in their work
time, and too exhausted for it in their leisure time, ‘they crave a stimulant’ – popular
music satisfies the craving.
Its stimulations are met with the inability to vest effort in the ever-identical. This
means boredom again. It is a circle which makes escape impossible. The impossibility
of escape causes the widespread attitude of inattention toward popular
music. The moment of recognition is that of effortless sensation. The sudden attention
attached to this moment burns itself out instanter and relegates the listener to
a realm of inattention and distraction (71).
Popular music operates in a kind of blurred dialectic: to consume it demands inattention
and distraction, whilst its consumption produces in the consumer inattention and
distraction.
Adorno’s third point is the claim that popular music operates as ‘social cement’ (72).
Its ‘socio-psychological function’ is to achieve in the consumers of popular music ‘psychical
adjustment’ to the needs of the prevailing structure of power (ibid.). This ‘adjustment’
manifests itself in ‘two major socio-psychological types of mass behaviour . . .
the “rhythmically” obedient type and the “emotional” type’ (ibid.). The first type dances
in distraction to the rhythm of his or her own exploitation and oppression. The second
type wallows in sentimental misery, oblivious to the real conditions of existence.
There are a number of points to be made about Adorno’s analysis. First, we must
acknowledge that he is writing in 1941. Popular music has changed a great deal since
then. However, having said that, Adorno never thought to change his analysis following
the changes that occurred in popular music up until his death in 1969. Is
popular music as monolithic as he would have us believe? For example, does pseudoindividualization
really explain the advent of rock’n’roll in 1956, the emergence of the
Beatles in 1962, the music of the counterculture in 1965? Does it explain punk rock
and Rock Against Racism in the 1970s, acid house and indie pop in the 1980s, rave and
hip hop in the 1990s? Moreover, is the consumption of popular music as passive as

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Adorno claims? Simon Frith (1983) provides sales figures that suggest not: ‘despite the
difficulties of the calculations . . . most business commentators agree that about 10 per
cent of all records released (a little less for singles, a little more for LPs) make money’
(147). In addition to this, only about another 10 per cent cover their costs (ibid.). This
means that about 80 per cent of records actually lose money. Moreover, Paul Hirsch
has calculated that at least 60 per cent of singles released are never played by anyone
(cited in Frith, 1983: 147). This does not suggest the workings of an all-powerful culture
industry, easily able to manipulate its consumers. It sounds more like a culture
industry trying desperately to sell records to a critical and discriminating public.
Such figures certainly imply that consumption is rather more active than Adorno’s
argument suggests. Subcultural use of music is clearly at the leading edge of such active
discrimination, but is by no means the only example. Finally, does popular music
really function as social cement? Subcultures or music taste cultures, for instance,
would appear to consume popular music in a way not too dissimilar to Adorno’s ideal
mode for the consumption of ‘serious music’. Richard Dyer (1990) argues that this is
certainly the case with regard to the gay consumption of disco. He detects a certain
romanticism in disco that keeps alive a way of being that is always in conflict with the
mundane and the everyday. As he explains, ‘Romanticism asserts that the limits of
work and domesticity are not the limits of experience’ (417).
The analysis offered by the majority of the Frankfurt School works with a series
of binary oppositions held in place by the supposed fundamental difference between
culture and mass culture (Table 4.2).
Walter Benjamin’s (1973) essay ‘The work of art in the age of mechanical reproduction’
is much more optimistic about the possibility of a revolutionary transformation
of capitalism. He claims that capitalism will ‘ultimately . . . create conditions which
would make it possible to abolish capitalism itself’ (219). Benjamin believes that
changes in the technological reproduction of culture are changing the function of culture
in society: ‘technical reproduction can put the copy of the original into situations
which would be out of reach for the original itself’ (222). Reproduction thus challenges
what Benjamin calls the ‘aura’ of texts and practices.
Table 4.2 ‘Culture’ and ‘mass culture’ according to the Frankfurt School.
Culture Mass culture
Real False
European American
Multi-dimensional One-dimensional
Active consumption Passive consumption
Individual creation Mass production
Imagination Distraction
Negation Social cement

The Frankfurt School 69
One might generalise by saying: the technique of reproduction detaches the reproduced
object from the domain of tradition. By making many reproductions it
substitutes a plurality of copies for a unique existence. And in permitting the reproduction
to meet the beholder or listener in his own particular situation, it reactivates
the object reproduced. These two processes lead to a tremendous shattering
of tradition . . . Their most powerful agent is film. Its social significance, particularly
in its most positive form, is inconceivable without its destructive, cathartic aspect,
that is, the liquidation of the traditional value of the cultural heritage (223).
The ‘aura’ of a text or practice is its sense of ‘authenticity’, ‘authority’, ‘autonomy’
and ‘distance’. The decay of the aura detaches the text or practice from the authority
and rituals of tradition. It opens them to a plurality of reinterpretation, freeing them to
be used in other contexts, for other purposes. No longer embedded in tradition,
significance is now open to dispute; meaning becomes a question of consumption,
an active (political), rather than a passive (for Adorno: psychological) event. Technological
reproduction changes production: ‘To an ever greater degree the work of art
reproduced becomes the work of art designed for reproducibility’ (226). Consumption
is also changed: from its location in religious ritual to its location in the rituals of
aesthetics, consumption is now based on the practice of politics. Culture may have
become mass culture, but consumption has not become mass consumption.
Mechanical reproduction of art changes the reaction of the masses toward art. The
reactionary attitude toward a Picasso painting changes into the progressive reaction
toward a Chaplin movie. The progressive reaction is characterised by the direct,
intimate fusion of visual and emotional enjoyment with the orientation of the
expert (236).
Questions of meaning and consumption shift from passive contemplation to active
political struggle. Benjamin’s celebration of the positive potential of ‘mechanical reproduction’,
his view that it begins the process of a move from an ‘auratic’ culture to a
‘democratic’ culture in which meaning is no longer seen as unique, but open to question,
open to use and mobilization, has had a profound (if often unacknowledged)
influence on cultural theory and popular culture. Susan Willis (1991) describes
Benjamin’s essay thus: ‘This may well be the single most important essay in the development
of Marxist popular culture criticism’ (10). Whereas Adorno locates meaning in
the mode of production (how a cultural text is produced determines its consumption
and significance), Benjamin suggests that meaning is produced at the moment of consumption;
significance is determined by the process of consumption, regardless of the
mode of production. As Frith points out, the ‘debate’ 11 between Adorno and Benjamin
– between a socio-psychological account of consumption combined with an insistence
on the determining power of production, against the argument that consumption is
a matter of politics – continues to be argued in contemporary accounts of popular
music: ‘Out of Adorno have come analyses of the economics of entertainment . . . [and
the] ideological effects of commercial music making. . . . From Benjamin have come

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Chapter 4 Marxisms
subcultural theories, descriptions of the struggle . . . to make their own meanings in
their acts of consumption’ (57).
Despite its Marxist sophistication and admirable political intent, the approach of
the Frankfurt School to popular culture (with the exception of Benjamin) would in
some respects fit easily into the ‘culture and civilization’ tradition discussed in Chapter 2.
Like the perspective developed by Arnold, Leavisism and some of the American mass
culture theorists, the Frankfurt School perspective on popular culture is essentially a
discourse from above on the culture of other people (a discourse of ‘us’ and ‘them’).
It is true that the Frankfurt School are very critical of conservative cultural critics
who bemoaned the passing of, or threat to, a ‘pure’ autonomous culture for its own
sake. Adorno, as J.M. Bernstein (1978) points out, ‘regards the conservative defence
of high culture as reflecting an unreflective hypostatization of culture that protects
the economic status quo’ (15). Nevertheless, it remains the case that there are certain
similarities between the focus of the ‘culture and civilization’ tradition and that of
the Frankfurt School. They condemn the same things, but for different reasons. The
‘culture and civilization’ tradition attack mass culture because it threatens cultural standards
and social authority, the Frankfurt School attack mass culture because it threatens
cultural standards and depoliticizes the working class, and thus maintains the iron grip
of social authority: ‘obedience to the rhythm of the iron system . . . the absolute power
of capitalism’ (Adorno and Horkheimer, 1979: 120; my italics). It is very difficult to
imagine the possibility of political agency in a situation of absolute power.
Althusserianism
The ideas of Louis Althusser have had an enormous influence on cultural theory and
popular culture. As Hall (1978) suggests, ‘Althusser’s interventions and their consequent
development are enormously formative for the field of cultural studies’ (21).
Althusser’s most significant contribution to the field is his different attempts to theorize
the concept of ideology. I shall therefore restrict discussion to this aspect of his
work.
Althusser begins by rejecting mechanistic interpretation of the base/superstructure
formulation, insisting instead on the concept of the social formation. According to
Althusser (1969), a social formation consists of three practices: the economic, the
political and the ideological. The relationship between the base and the superstructure
is not one of expression, i.e. the superstructure being an expression or passive reflection
of the base, but rather the superstructure is seen as necessary to the existence of the
base. The model allows for the relative autonomy of the superstructure. Determination
remains, but it is determination in ‘the last instance’. This operates through what he
calls the ‘structure in dominance’; that is, although the economic is always ultimately
‘determinant’, this does not mean that in a particular historical conjuncture it will necessarily
be dominant. Under feudalism, for example, the political was the dominant

Althusserianism 71
level. Nevertheless, the practice that is dominant in a particular social formation will
depend on the specific form of economic production. What he means by this is that
the economic contradictions of capitalism never take a pure form: ‘the lonely hour of
the last instance never comes’ (113). The economic is determinant in the last instance,
not because the other instances are its epiphenomena, but because it determines which
practice is dominant. In volume one of Capital, Marx (1976c) makes a similar point in
response to criticisms suggesting definite limits to the critical reach of Marxist analysis:
[Marxism, so its critics say,] is all very true for our own time, in which material
interests are preponderant, but not for the Middle Ages, dominated by Catholicism,
nor for Athens and Rome, dominated by politics. . . . One thing is clear: the
Middle Ages could not live on Catholicism, nor could the ancient world on politics.
On the contrary, it is the manner in which they gained their livelihood which
explains why in one case politics, in the other case Catholicism, played the chief
part. . . . And then there is Don Quixote, who long ago paid the penalty for
wrongly imagining that knight errantry was compatible with all economic forms of
society (176).
Althusser produced three definitions of ideology, two of which have proved particularly
fruitful for the student of popular culture. The first definition, which overlaps in
some ways with the second, is the claim that ideology – ‘a system (with its own logic
and rigour) of representations (images, myths, ideas or concepts)’ (1969: 231) – is a
‘practice’ through which men and women live their relations to the real conditions of
existence. ‘By practice ...I...mean any process of transformation of a determinate
given raw material into a determinate product, a transformation effected by a determinate
human labour, using determinate means (of “production”)’ (166). Therefore,
as the economic, the historically specific mode of production, transforms certain raw
materials into products by determinate means of production, involving determinate
relations of production, so ideological practice shapes an individual’s lived relations
to the social formation. In this way, ideology dispels contradictions in lived experience.
It accomplishes this by offering false, but seemingly true, resolutions to real problems.
This is not a ‘conscious’ process; ideology ‘is profoundly unconscious’ (233) in its
mode of operation.
In ideology men . . . express, not the relation between them and their conditions
of existence, but the way they live the relation between them and their conditions
of existence: this presupposes both a real relation and an ‘imaginary’, ‘lived’ relation.
Ideology . . . is the expression of the relation between men and their ‘world’,
that is, the (overdetermined) unity of the real relation and the imaginary relation
between them and their real conditions of existence (233–4).
The relationship is both real and imaginary in the sense that ideology is the way we
live our relationship to the real conditions of existence at the level of representations
(myths, concepts, ideas, images, discourses): there are real conditions and there are the

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Chapter 4 Marxisms
ways we represent these conditions to ourselves and to others. This applies to both
dominant and subordinate classes; ideologies do not just convince oppressed groups
that all is well with the world, they also convince ruling groups that exploitation and
oppression are really something quite different, acts of universal necessity. Only a
‘scientific’ discourse (Althusser’s Marxism) can see through ideology to the real conditions
of existence.
Because ideology is for Althusser a closed system, it can only ever set itself such
problems as it can answer; that is, to remain within its boundaries (a mythic realm
without contradictions), it must stay silent on questions which threaten to take it
beyond these boundaries. This formulation leads Althusser to the concept of the ‘problematic’.
He first uses the concept to explain the ‘epistemological break’, which he
claims occurs in Marx’s work in 1845. Marx’s problematic, ‘the objective internal reference
system . . . the system of questions commanding the answers given’ (67), determines
not only the questions and answers he is able to bring into play, but also the
absence of problems and concepts in his work.
According to Althusser a problematic consists of the assumptions, motivations,
underlying ideas, etc., from which a text (say, an advert) is made. In this way, it is
argued, a text is structured as much by what is absent (what is not said) as by what is
present (what is said). Althusser argues that if we are to fully understand the meaning
of a text, we have to be aware of not only what is in a text but also the assumptions
which inform it (and which may not appear in the text itself in any straightforward way
but exist only in the text’s problematic). One way in which a text’s problematic is supposedly
revealed is in the way a text may appear to answer questions which it has not
formally posed. Such questions, it is argued, have been posed in the text’s problematic.
The task of an Althusserian critical practice is to deconstruct the text to reveal the problematic.
To do this is to perform what Althusser calls a ‘symptomatic reading’.
In Reading Capital, Althusser characterizes Marx’s method of reading the work of
Adam Smith as ‘symptomatic’ in that
it divulges the undivulged event in the text it reads, and in the same movement
relates it to a different text, present as a necessary absence in the first. Like his first
reading, Marx’s second reading presupposes the existence of two texts, and the
measurement of the first against the second. But what distinguishes this new reading
from the old is the fact that in the new one the second text is articulated with
the lapses in the first text (Althusser and Balibar, 1979: 67).
By a symptomatic reading of Smith, Marx is able to construct for analysis ‘the problematic
initially visible in his writings against the invisible problematic contained in
the paradox of an answer which does not correspond to any question posed’ (28). Marx
(1951) himself says this of Smith, ‘Adam Smith’s contradictions are of significance
because they contain problems which it is true he does not solve, but which he reveals
by contradicting himself’ (146).
To read a text symptomatically, therefore, is to perform a double reading: reading
first the manifest text, and then, through the lapses, distortions, silences and absences

Althusserianism 73
(the ‘symptoms’ of a problem struggling to be posed) in the manifest text, to produce
and read the latent text. For example, a symptomatic reading of the film Taxi Driver
would reveal a problematic in which answers are posed to questions it can hardly
name: ‘How does the Veteran return home to America after the imperial horrors of
Vietnam?’ At the heart of the film’s problematic are questions relating to real historical
problems, albeit deformed and transformed into a fantasy quest and a bloody resolution.
A symptomatic reading of Taxi Driver, reading the ‘symptoms’ for evidence of an
underlying dis-ease, would construct from the film’s contradictions, its evasions, its
silences, its inexplicable violence, its fairy-tale ending, the central and structuring
absence – America’s war in Vietnam.
Another example can be seen in the number of recent car advertisements that
situate vehicles isolated in nature (for example, see Photos 4.1 and 4.2). This mode of
advertising, I would argue, is a response to the growing body of negative publicity
which car ownership has attracted (especially in terms of pollution and road congestion).
To prevent this publicity having an adverse effect on car sales these criticisms
have to be countered. To confront them in a direct way would always run the risk of
allowing the criticisms to come between the car being advertised and any potential
buyer. Therefore, showing cars in both nature (unpolluted) and space (uncongested)
confronts the claims without the risk of giving them a dangerous and unnecessary
visibility. In this way, the criticisms are answered without the questions themselves
having been formally posed. The emphasis placed on nature and space is, therefore, a
response to the twin questions (which remain unasked in the advertisement itself but
exist in the assumptions which organize the advert – in the text’s ‘problematic’): does
Photo 4.1 Advertising as an example of the ‘problematic’.

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Chapter 4 Marxisms
Photo 4.2 Advertising as an example of the ‘problematic’.
buying a car increase both pollution and road congestion? The answer given, without
the question being asked, is that this car, as if by magic, neither pollutes nor contributes
to road congestion.
Pierre Macherey’s (1978) A Theory of Literary Production is undoubtedly the most
sustained attempt to apply the technique of the Althusserian symptomatic reading to
cultural texts. Although, as the book’s title implies, Macherey’s main focus is on literary
production, the approach developed in the book is of great interest to the student
of popular culture.
In his elaboration of Althusser’s method of symptomatic reading, he rejects what he
calls ‘the interpretative fallacy’: the view that a text has a single meaning which it is the
task of criticism to uncover. For him the text is not a puzzle that conceals a meaning;
it is a construction with a multiplicity of meanings. To ‘explain’ a text is to recognize
this. To do so it is necessary to break with the idea that a text is a harmonious unity,
spiralling forth from a moment of overwhelming intentionality. Against this, he claims
that the literary text is ‘decentred’; it is incomplete in itself. To say this does not mean
that something needs to be added in order to make it whole. His point is that all literary
texts are ‘decentred’ (not centred on an authorial intention) in the specific sense
that they consist of a confrontation between several discourses: explicit, implicit, present
and absent. The task of critical practice is not, therefore, the attempt to measure
and evaluate a text’s coherence, its harmonious totality, its aesthetic unity, but instead
to explain the disparities in the text that point to a conflict of meanings.

Althusserianism 75
This conflict is not the sign of an imperfection; it reveals the inscription of an
otherness in the work, through which it maintains a relationship with that which
it is not, that which happens at its margins. To explain the work is to show that,
contrary to appearances, it is not independent, but bears in its material substance
the imprint of a determinate absence which is also the principle of its identity. The
book is furrowed by the allusive presence of those other books against which it is
elaborated; it circles about the absence of that which it cannot say, haunted by the
absence of certain repressed words which make their return. The book is not the
extension of a meaning; it is generated from the incompatibility of several meanings,
the strongest bond by which it is attached to reality, in a tense and ever
renewed confrontation (79–80; my italics).
It is this conflict of several meanings that structures a text: it displays this conflict but
cannot speak it – its determinate absence. Traditionally, criticism has seen its role as
making explicit what is implicit in the text, to make audible that which is merely a
whisper (i.e. a single meaning). For Macherey, it is not a question of making what is
there speak with more clarity so as to be finally sure of the text’s meaning. Because a
text’s meanings are ‘both interior and absent’ (78), to simply repeat the text’s selfknowledge
is to fail to really explain the text. The task of a fully competent critical practice
is not to make a whisper audible, nor to complete what the text leaves unsaid, but
to produce a new knowledge of the text: one that explains the ideological necessity of
its silences, its absences, its structuring incompleteness – the staging of that which it
cannot speak.
The act of knowing is not like listening to a discourse already constituted, a mere
fiction which we have simply to translate. It is rather the elaboration of a new discourse,
the articulation of a silence. Knowledge is not the discovery or reconstruction
of a latent meaning, forgotten or concealed. It is something newly raised up,
an addition to the reality from which it begins (6).
Borrowing from Freud’s work on dreams (see Chapter 5), Macherey contends that
in order for something to be said, other things must be left unsaid. It is the reason(s)
for these absences, these silences, within a text that must be interrogated. ‘What is
important in the work is what it does not say’ (87). Again, as with Freud, who believed
that the meanings of his patients’ problems were not hidden in their conscious
discourse, but repressed in the turbulent discourse of the unconscious, necessitating a
subtle form of analysis acute to the difference between what is said and what is shown,
Macherey’s approach dances between the different nuances of telling and showing. This
leads him to the claim that there is a ‘gap’, an ‘internal distanciation’, between what a
text wants to say and what a text actually says. To explain a text it is necessary to go
beyond it, to understand what it ‘is compelled to say in order to say what it wants to
say’ (94). It is here that the text’s ‘unconscious’ is constituted (Macherey’s term for the
Althusser’s problematic). And it is in a text’s unconscious that its relationship to the
ideological and historical conditions of its existence is revealed. It is in the absent

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centre, hollowed out by conflicting discourses, that the text is related to history – to a
particular moment in history and to the specific ideological discourses that circulate in
that moment. The text’s unconscious does not reflect historical contradictions; rather,
it evokes, stages and displays them, allowing us, not a ‘scientific’ knowledge of ideology,
but an awareness of ‘ideology in contradiction with itself’; breaking down before
questions it cannot answer, failing to do what ideology is supposed to do: ‘ideology
exists precisely in order to efface all trace of contradiction’ (130).
In a formal sense, a text always begins by posing a problem that is to be solved. The
text then exists as a process of unfolding: the narrative movement to the final resolution
of the problem. Macherey contends that between the problem posed and the resolution
offered, rather than continuity, there is always a rupture. It is by examining this
rupture that we discover the text’s relationship with ideology and history: ‘We always
eventually find, at the edge of the text, the language of ideology, momentarily hidden,
but eloquent by its very absence’ (60).
All narratives contain an ideological project: that is, they promise to tell the ‘truth’
about something. Information is initially withheld on the promise that it will be
revealed. Narrative constitutes a movement towards disclosure. It begins with a truth
promised and ends with a truth revealed. To be rather schematic, Macherey divides the
text into three instances: the ideological project (the ‘truth’ promised), the realization
(the ‘truth’ revealed), and the unconscious of the text (produced by an act of symptomatic
reading): the return of the repressed historical ‘truth’. ‘Science’, he claims, ‘does
away with ideology, obliterates it; literature challenges ideology by using it. If ideology
is thought of as a non-systematic ensemble of significations, the work proposes
a reading of these significations, by combining them as signs. Criticism teaches us to
read these signs’ (133). In this way, Machereyan critical practice seeks to explain the
way in which, by giving ideology form, the literary text displays ideology in contradiction
with itself.
In a discussion of the work of the French science fiction writer Jules Verne, he
demonstrates how Verne’s work stages the contradictions of late-nineteenth-century
French imperialism. He argues that the ideological project of Verne’s work is the
fantastic staging of the adventures of French imperialism: its colonizing conquest of
the earth. Each adventure concerns the hero’s conquest of Nature (a mysterious island,
the moon, the bottom of the sea, the centre of the earth). In telling these stories, Verne
is ‘compelled’ to tell another: each voyage of conquest becomes a voyage of rediscovery,
as Verne’s heroes discover that others either have been there before or are there
already. The significance of this, for Macherey, lies in the disparity he perceives between
‘representation’ (what is intended: the subject of the narrative) and ‘figuration’ (how
it is realized: its inscription in narrative): Verne ‘represents’ the ideology of French
imperialism, whilst at the same time, through the act of ‘figuration’ (making material
in the form of a fiction), undermines one of its central myths in the continual staging of
the fact that the lands are always already occupied (similarly, the first edition of this
book was written in the middle of a discursive avalanche of media – and other – claims
that America was discovered in 1492). ‘In the passage from the level of representation
to that of figuration, ideology undergoes a complete modification . . . perhaps because

Althusserianism 77
no ideology is sufficiently consistent to survive the test of figuration’ (194–5). Thus by
giving fictional form to the ideology of imperialism, Verne’s work – ‘to read it against
the grain of its intended meaning’ (230) – stages the contradictions between the myth
and the reality of imperialism. The stories do not provide us with a ‘scientific’ denunciation
(‘a knowledge in the strict sense’) of imperialism, but by an act of symptomatic
reading ‘which dislodges the work internally’, they ‘make us see’, ‘make us perceive’,
‘make us feel’, the terrible contradictions of the ideological discourses from which each
text is constituted: ‘from which it is born, in which it bathes, from which it detaches
itself . . . and to which it alludes’ (Althusser, 1971: 222). Verne’s science fiction, then,
can be made to reveal to us – though not in the ways intended – the ideological and
historical conditions of its emergence.
In the nineteenth century there were a great number of books written to advise
young women on appropriate conduct. Here, for example, is an extract from Thomas
Broadhurst’s Advice to Young Ladies on the Improvement of the Mind and Conduct of Life
(1810),
She who is faithfully employed in discharging the various duties of a wife and
daughter, a mother and a friend, is far more usefully occupied than one who, to
the culpable neglect of the most important obligations, is daily absorbed by philosophic
and literary speculations, or soaring aloft amidst the enchanted regions of
fiction and romance (quoted in Mills, 2004: 80).
Rather than see this as a straightforward sign of women’s oppression, a Machereyan
analysis would interrogate the extent to which this text is also an indication of the failure
of women to occupy positions traditionally demanded of them. In other words, if
women were not engaging in philosophic and literary speculation, there would be no
need to advise them against it. Women actually engaging in literary and philosophic
speculation (and probably so much more) is, therefore, the determinate absence of the
text. Similarly, Sara Mills (2004) points out how women’s travel writing in the nineteenth
century had to continually address discourse of femininity which suggested that
travel was something beyond a woman’s strength and commitment. For example, in
Alexandra David-Neel’s account of her travels in Tibet we read, ‘For nineteen hours we
had been walking. Strangely enough, I did not feel tired’ (quoted in Mills, 2004: 90).
It is the phrase ‘strangely enough’ that points to a determinate absence: a masculine
discourse of disbelief that haunts the unconscious of the text.
Finally, Photo 4.3 shows two figures on an otherwise empty beach; they look cold
and uncomfortable. When trying to decide what this photograph signifies, it is very
likely that our interpretation may well be organized and shaped by a historically
specific determinate absence: a normative expectation of a beach as a place of holidaymakers,
relaxed and enjoying themselves. It is this determinate absence that locates the
‘meaning’ of the photograph in a specific historical moment: before the rise of the
seaside holiday in the 1840s, this normative expectation would have been unavailable
as an interpretative framework. In other words, the meaning we make is both historical
and structured by absence.

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Photo 4.3 Two figures on a beach.
In Althusser’s second formulation, ideology is still a representation of the imaginary
relationship of individuals to the real conditions of existence, only now ideology is no
longer seen only as a body of ideas, but as a lived, material practice – rituals, customs,
patterns of behaviour, ways of thinking taking practical form – reproduced through
the practices and productions of the Ideological State Apparatuses (ISAs): education,
organized religion, the family, organized politics, the media, the culture industries, etc.
According to this second definition, ‘all ideology has the function (which defines it)
of “constructing” concrete individuals as subjects’ (2009: 309). Ideological subjects are
produced by acts of ‘hailing’ or ‘interpellation’. Althusser uses the analogy of a police
officer hailing an individual: ‘Hey, you there!’ When the individual hailed turns in
response, he or she has been interpellated, has become a subject of the police officer’s
discourse. In this way, ideology is a material practice that creates subjects who are in
turn subjected to its specific patterns of thought and modes of behaviour.
This definition of ideology has had a significant effect on the field of cultural studies
and the study of popular culture. Judith Williamson (1978), for example, deploys
Althusser’s second definition of ideology in her influential study of advertising,
Decoding Advertisements. She argues that advertising is ideological in the sense that it
represents an imaginary relationship to our real conditions of existence. Instead of class
distinctions based on our role in the process of production, advertising continually

suggests that what really matters are distinctions based on the consumption of particular
goods. Thus social identity becomes a question of what we consume rather than
what we produce. Like all ideology, advertising functions by interpellation: it creates
subjects who in turn are subjected to its meanings and its patterns of consumption. The
consumer is interpellated to make meaning and ultimately to purchase and consume
and purchase and consume again. For example, when I am addressed in terms such as
‘people like you’ are turning this or that product, I am interpellated as one of a group,
but more importantly as an individual ‘you’ of that group. I am addressed as an individual
who can recognize myself in the imaginary space opened up by the pronoun
‘you’. Thus I am invited to become the imaginary ‘you’ spoken to in the advertisement.
But such a process is for Althusser an act of ideological ‘misrecognition’. First, in the
sense that in order for the advert to work it must attract many others who also recognize
themselves in the ‘you’ (each one thinking they are the real ‘you’ of its discourse).
Second, it is misrecognition in another sense: the ‘you’ I recognize in the advert is in
fact a ‘you’ created by the advertisement. As Slavoj yizek (1992) points out, interpellation
works like this: ‘I don’t recognise myself in it because I’m its addressee, I become
its addressee the moment I recognise myself in it’ (12). Advertising, then, according to
this perspective, flatters us into thinking we are the special ‘you’ of its discourse and in
so doing we become subjects of and subjected to its material practices: acts of consumption.
Advertising is thus ideological both in the way it functions and in the effects
it produces.
One of the problems with Althusser’s second model of ideology, and its application
in cultural theory, is that it seems to work too well. Men and women are always successfully
reproduced with all the necessary ideological habits required by the capitalist
mode of production; there is no sense of failure, let alone any notion of conflict, struggle
or resistance. In terms of popular culture, do advertisements, for example, always
successfully interpellate us as consuming subjects? Moreover, even if interpellation
works, previous interpellations may get in the way (contradict and prevent from working)
of current interpellations. Put simply, if I know that racism is wrong, a racist joke
will fail to interpellate me. It was against this background of concerns that many working
within the field of cultural studies turned to the work of the Italian Marxist Antonio
Gramsci.
Hegemony
Hegemony 79
Central to the cultural studies appropriation of Gramsci is the concept of hegemony.
Hegemony is for Gramsci a political concept developed to explain (given the exploitative
and oppressive nature of capitalism) the absence of socialist revolutions in the
Western capitalist democracies. The concept of hegemony is used by Gramsci (2009)
to refer to a condition in process in which a dominant class (in alliance with other classes
or class fractions) does not merely rule a society but leads it through the exercise of

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‘intellectual and moral leadership (75)’. Hegemony involves a specific kind of consensus:
a social group seeks to present its own particular interests as the general interests of the
society as a whole. In this sense, the concept is used to suggest a society in which,
despite oppression and exploitation, there is a high degree of consensus, a large
measure of social stability; a society in which subordinate groups and classes appear to
actively support and subscribe to values, ideals, objectives, cultural and political meanings,
which bind them to, and ‘incorporate’ them into, the prevailing structures of
power. For example, throughout most of the course of the twentieth century, general
elections in Britain were contested by what are now the two main political parties,
Labour and Conservative. On each occasion the contest circled around the question,
who best can administer capitalism (usually referred to by the less politically charged
term ‘the economy’) – less public ownership, more public ownership, less taxation,
more taxation, etc. And on each occasion, the mainstream media concurred. In this
sense, the parameters of the election debate are ultimately dictated by the particular
needs and interests of capitalism, presented as the interests and needs of society as a
whole. This is clearly an example of a situation in which the interests of one powerful
section of society have been ‘universalized’ as the interests of the society as a whole.
The situation seems perfectly ‘natural’, virtually beyond serious contention. But it was
not always like this. Capitalism’s hegemony is the result of profound political, social,
cultural and economic changes that have taken place over a period of at least 300 years.
Until as late as the second part of the nineteenth century, capitalism’s position was still
uncertain. 12 It is only in the twenty-first century that the system seems to have won, or
at least to be winning, especially with the political and economic collapse of the Soviet
Union and Eastern Europe, and the introduction of the ‘Open Door’ policy and ‘market
socialism’ in China. Capitalism is now, more or less, internationally hegemonic.
Although hegemony implies a society with a high degree of consensus, it should not
be understood to refer to a society in which all conflict has been removed. What the
concept is meant to suggest is a society in which conflict is contained and channelled
into ideologically safe harbours. That is, hegemony is maintained (and must be continually
maintained: it is an ongoing process) by dominant groups and classes ‘negotiating’
with, and making concessions to, subordinate groups and classes. For example,
consider the historical case of British hegemony in the Caribbean. One of the ways in
which Britain attempted to secure its control over the indigenous population, and the
African men, women and children it had transported there as slaves, was by means
of the imposition of a version of British culture (a standard practice for colonial
regimes everywhere): part of the process was to institute English as the official language.
In linguistic terms, the result was not the imposition of English, but for the
majority of the population, the creation of a new language. The dominant element of
this new language is English, but the language itself is not simply English. What
emerged was a transformed English, with new stresses and new rhythms, with some
words dropped and new words introduced (from African languages and elsewhere).
The new language is the result of a ‘negotiation’ between dominant and subordinate
cultures, a language marked by both ‘resistance’ and ‘incorporation’: that is, not a language
imposed from above, nor a language which spontaneously had arisen from

Hegemony 81
below, but a language that is the result of a hegemonic struggle between two language
cultures – a dominant language culture and subordinate language cultures, involving
both ‘resistance’ and ‘incorporation’.
Hegemony is never simply power imposed from above: it is always the result of
‘negotiations’ between dominant and subordinate groups, a process marked by both
‘resistance’ and ‘incorporation’. There are of course limits to such negotiations and concessions.
As Gramsci makes clear, they can never be allowed to challenge the economic
fundamentals of class power. Moreover, in times of crisis, when moral and intellectual
leadership is not enough to secure continued authority, the processes of hegemony are
replaced, temporarily, by the coercive power of the ‘repressive state apparatus’: the
army, the police, the prison system, etc.
Hegemony is ‘organized’ by those whom Gramsci designates ‘organic intellectuals’.
According to Gramsci, intellectuals are distinguished by their social function. That is to
say, all men and women have the capacity for intellectual endeavour, but only certain
men and women have in society the function of intellectuals. Each class, as Gramsci
explains, creates ‘organically’ its own intellectuals:
one or more strata of intellectuals which give it homogeneity and an awareness of
its own function not only in the economic sphere but also in the social and political
fields. The capitalist entrepreneur [for example] creates alongside himself the
industrial technician, the specialist in political economy, the organisers of a new
culture, of a new legal system, etc. (2009: 77).
Organic intellectuals function as class organizers (in the broadest sense of the term).
It is their task to shape and to organize the reform of moral and intellectual life. I have
argued elsewhere 13 that Matthew Arnold is best understood as an organic intellectual,
what Gramsci identifies as one of ‘an elite of men of culture, who have the function of
providing leadership of a cultural and general ideological nature’ (Storey 1985: 217).
Gramsci tends to speak of organic intellectuals as individuals, but the way the concept
has been mobilized in cultural studies, following Althusser’s barely acknowledged
borrowings from Gramsci, is in terms of collective organic intellectuals – the so-called
‘ideological state apparatuses’ of the family, television, the press, education, organized
religion, the culture industries, etc.
Using hegemony theory, popular culture is what men and women make from their
active consumption of the texts and practices of the culture industries. Youth subcultures
are perhaps the most spectacular example of this process. Dick Hebdige (1979)
offers a clear and convincing explanation of the process (‘bricolage’) by which youth
subcultures appropriate for their own purposes and meanings the commodities commercially
provided. Products are combined or transformed in ways not intended by
their producers; commodities are rearticulated to produce ‘oppositional’ meanings.
In this way, and through patterns of behaviour, ways of speaking, taste in music, etc.,
youth subcultures engage in symbolic forms of resistance to both dominant and parent
cultures. Youth cultures, according to this model, always move from originality
and opposition to commercial incorporation and ideological diffusion as the culture

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industries eventually succeed in marketing subcultural resistance for general consumption
and profit. As Hebdige explains: ‘Youth cultural styles may begin by issuing symbolic
challenges, but they must end by establishing new sets of conventions; by
creating new commodities, new industries or rejuvenating old ones’ (96).
The concept of hegemony allows students of popular culture to free themselves from
the disabling analysis of many of the previous approaches to the subject. Popular culture
is no longer a history-stopping, imposed culture of political manipulation (the
Frankfurt School); nor is it the sign of social decline and decay (the ‘culture and civilization’
tradition); nor is it something emerging spontaneously from below (some versions
of culturalism); nor is it a meaning-machine imposing subjectivities on passive
subjects (some versions of structuralism). Instead of these and other approaches, hegemony
theory allows us to think of popular culture as a ‘negotiated’ mix of what is made
both from ‘above’ and from ‘below’, both ‘commercial’ and ‘authentic’; a shifting
balance of forces between resistance and incorporation. This can be analysed in many
different configurations: class, gender, generation, ethnicity, ‘race’, region, religion, disability,
sexuality, etc. From this perspective, popular culture is a contradictory mix of
competing interests and values: neither middle nor working class, neither racist nor
non-racist, neither sexist nor non-sexist, neither homophobic nor homophilic ...but
always a shifting balance between the two – what Gramsci calls ‘a compromise equilibrium’
(2009: 76). The commercially provided culture of the culture industries is
redefined, reshaped and redirected in strategic acts of selective consumption and productive
acts of reading and articulation, often in ways not intended or even foreseen by
its producers.
Post-Marxism and cultural studies
As Angela McRobbie (1992) observes, Marxism is no longer as influential in cultural
studies as it has been in the past:
Marxism, a major point of reference for the whole cultural studies project in the
UK, has been undermined not just from the viewpoint of the postmodern critics
who attack its teleological propositions, its meta-narrative status, its essentialism,
economism, Eurocentrism, and its place within the whole Enlightenment project,
but also, of course, as a result of the events in Eastern Europe, with the discrediting
of much of the socialist project (719).
What is certain, as she explains, is that ‘the return to a pre-postmodern Marxism as
marked out by critics like Fredric Jameson (1984) and David Harvey (1989) is untenable
because the terms of that return are predicated on prioritizing economic relations
and economic determinations over cultural and political relations by positioning
these latter in a mechanical and reflectionist role’ (ibid.). But more than this, there is a

Post-Marxism and cultural studies 83
real sense in which cultural studies was always-already post-Marxist. As Hall (1992)
points out,
There was never a prior moment when cultural studies and Marxism represented
a perfect theoretical fit. From the beginning . . . there was always-already the
question of the great inadequacies, theoretically and politically, the resounding
silences, the great evasions of Marxism – the things that Marx did not talk about or
seem to understand which were our privileged object of study: culture, ideology,
language, the symbolic. These were always-already, instead, the things which had
imprisoned Marxism as a mode of thought, as an activity of critical practice – its
orthodoxy, its doctrinal character, its determinism, its reductionism, its immutable
law of history, its status as a metanarrative. That is to say, the encounter between
British cultural studies and Marxism has first to be understood as the engagement
with a problem – not a theory, not even a problematic (279).
Post-Marxism can mean at least two things. As Ernesto Laclau and Chantal Mouffe
(2001) point out in their deeply influential contribution to post-Marxism, Hegemony
and Socialist Strategy: Towards a Radical Democratic Politics, ‘if our intellectual project in
this book is post-Marxist, it is evidently also post-Marxist’ (4). To be post-Marxist is to
leave behind Marxism for something better, whereas to be post-Marxist is to seek to
transform Marxism, by adding to it recent theoretical developments from, especially,
feminism, postmodernism, post-structuralism and Lacanian psychoanalysis. Laclau
and Mouffe are more post-Marxist than they are post-Marxist. They envisage a partnership
between Marxism and the ‘new feminism, the protest movements of ethnic,
national and sexual minorities, the anti-institutional ecology struggles waged by
marginalized layers of the population, the anti-nuclear movement, the atypical forms
of social struggle in countries on the capitalist periphery’ (1). In my view, cultural studies
is post-Marxist in the positive sense advocated by Laclau and Mouffe.
The concept of discourse is central to the development of post-Marxism. As Laclau
(1993) explains, ‘The basic hypothesis of a discursive approach is that the very possibility
of perception, thought and action depends on the structuration of a certain
meaningful field which pre-exists any factual immediacy’ (431). To explain what they
mean by discourse Laclau and Mouffe (2009) give an example of two people building
a wall. The first person asks the second to pass him/her a brick. On receiving the brick,
the second person adds it to the wall. The totality of this operation consists in a
linguistic moment (the request for a brick) and a non-linguistic moment (adding the
brick to the wall). Discourse, according to Laclau and Mouffe, consists in the totality
of the linguistic and non-linguistic. In other words, they use the term discourse ‘to
emphasize the fact that every social configuration is meaningful. If I kick a spherical
object in the street or if I kick a ball in a football match, the physical fact is the same,
but its meaning is different. The object is a football only to the extent that it establishes
a system of relations with other objects, and these relations are not given by the
mere referential materiality of the objects, but are, rather, socially constructed. This systematic
set of relations is what we call discourse’ (159). Moreover,

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the discursive character of an object does not, by any means, imply putting its
existence into question. The fact that a football is only a football as long as it is
integrated within a system of socially constructed rules does not mean that it ceases
to be a physical object. . . . For the same reason it is the discourse which constitutes
the subject position of the social agent, and not, therefore, the social agent which
is the origin of discourse – the same system of rules that makes that spherical
object into a football, makes me a player (159).
In other words, objects exist independently of their discursive articulation, but it is only
within discourse that they can exist as meaningful objects. For example, earthquakes
exist in the real world, but whether they are
constructed in terms of ‘natural phenomena’ or ‘expressions of the wrath of God’,
depends upon the structuring of a discursive field. What is denied is not that such
objects exist externally to thought, but the rather different assertion that they could
constitute themselves as objects outside any discursive condition of emergence
(Laclau and Mouffe, 2001: 108).
The meanings produced in discourse inform and organize action. It is only in
discourse, for example, that ‘a relation of subordination’ can become ‘a relation of
oppression’, and thereby constitute itself as a site of struggle (153). Someone may be
‘objectively’ oppressed but unless they recognize their subordination as oppression, it
is unlikely that this relation will ever become antagonistic and therefore open to the
possibility of change. Hegemony works, as Laclau (1993) explains, by the transformation
of antagonism into simple difference.
A class is hegemonic not so much to the extent that it is able to impose a uniform
conception of the world on the rest of society, but to the extent that it can articulate
different visions of the world in such a way that their potential antagonism is
neutralised. The English bourgeoisie of the 19th century was transformed into a
hegemonic class not through the imposition of a uniform ideology upon other
classes, but to the extent that it succeeded in articulating different ideologies to its
hegemonic project by an elimination of their antagonistic character (161–2).
‘Articulation’ is a key term in post-Marxist cultural studies. ‘The practice of articulation’,
as Laclau and Mouffe (2001) explain, ‘consists in the . . . partial fix[ing] of meaning’
(113). Hall (1996b) has developed the concept to explain the ways in which
culture is a terrain of ideological struggle. Like Laclau and Mouffe, he argues that texts
and practices are not inscribed with meaning; meaning is always the result of an act
of articulation. As he points out, ‘Meaning is a social production, a practice. The world
has to be made to mean’ (2009a: 121). He also draws on the work of the Russian theorist
Valentin Volosinov (1973). Volosinov argues that texts and practices are ‘multiaccentual’:
that is, they can be ‘spoken’ with different ‘accents’ by different people

Post-Marxism and cultural studies 85
in different discourses and different social contexts for different politics. When, for
example, a black performer uses the word ‘nigger’ to attack institutional racism, it is
‘spoken’ with an ‘accent’ very different from the ‘accent’ given the word in, say, the
racist discourse of a neo-Nazi. This is, of course, not simply a question of linguistic
struggle – a conflict over semantics – but a sign of political struggle about who can
claim the power and the authority to (partially) fix the meaning of social reality.
An interesting example of the processes of articulation is the reggae music of
Rastafarian culture. Bob Marley, for example, had international success with songs
articulating the values and beliefs of Rastafari. This success can be viewed in two ways.
On the one hand, it signals the expression of the message of his religious convictions
to an enormous audience worldwide; undoubtedly for many of his audience the music
had the effect of enlightenment, understanding and perhaps even conversion to, and
bonding for those already convinced of, the principles of the faith. On the other hand,
the music has made and continues to make enormous profits for the music industry
(promoters, Island Records, etc.). What we have is a paradox in which the anti-capitalist
politics of Rastafari are being articulated in the economic interests of capitalism: the
music is lubricating the very system it seeks to condemn; that is, the politics of Rastafari
are being expressed in a form which is ultimately of financial benefit to the dominant
culture (i.e. as a commodity which circulates for profit). Nevertheless, the music is an
expression of an oppositional (religious) politics, and it may circulate as such, and it
may produce certain political and cultural effects. Therefore, Rastafarian reggae is a
force for change that paradoxically stabilizes (at least economically) the very forces of
power it seeks to overthrow.
Another example, in some ways more compelling than that of reggae, is the music
of the American counterculture. It inspired people to resist the draft and to organize
against Amerika’s war in Vietnam; yet, at the same time, its music made profits (over
which it had no control) that could then be used to support the war effort in Vietnam.
The more Jefferson Airplane sang ‘All your private property/Is target for your enemy/
And your enemy/Is We’, 14 the more money RCA Records made. The proliferation of
Jefferson Airplane’s anti-capitalist politics increased the profits of their capitalist record
company. Again, this is an example of the process of articulation: the way in which
dominant groups in society attempt to ‘negotiate’ oppositional voices on to a terrain
which secures for the dominant groups a continued position of leadership. The music
of the counterculture was not denied expression (and there can be little doubt that this
music produced particular cultural and political effects), but what is also true is that
this music was articulated in the economic interests of the war-supporting capitalist
music industry. 15 As Keith Richards of The Rolling Stones said,
We found out, and it wasn’t for years that we did, that all the bread we made for
Decca was going into making black boxes that go into American Air Force bombers
to bomb fucking North Vietnam. They took the bread we made for them and put
it into the radar section of their business. When we found that out, it blew our
minds. That was it. Goddam, you find out you’ve helped kill God knows how
many thousands of people without really knowing it (quoted in Storey 2009: 92).

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Chapter 4 Marxisms
In Chapter 3 we examined Williams’s (2009) social definition of culture. We discussed
it in terms of how it broadens the definition of culture: instead of culture
being defined as only the ‘elite’ texts and practices (ballet, opera, the novel, poetry),
Williams redefined culture to include as culture, for example, pop music, television,
cinema, advertising, going on holiday, etc. However, another aspect of Williams’s
social definition of culture has proved even more important for cultural studies, especially
post-Marxist cultural studies – the connection he makes between meaning and
culture.
There is the ‘social’ definition of culture, in which culture is a description of a
particular way of life, which expresses certain meanings and values not only in art and
learning but also in institutions and ordinary behaviour. The analysis of culture,
from such a definition, is the clarification of the meanings and values implicit in a
particular way of life (32; my italics).
The importance of a particular way of life is that it ‘expresses certain meanings and
values‘. Moreover, cultural analysis from the perspective of this definition of culture ‘is
the clarification of the meanings and values implicit in a particular way of life’.
Moreover, culture as a signifying system is not reducible to ‘a particular way of life’;
rather, it is fundamental to the shaping and holding together of a particular way of
life. This is not to reduce everything ‘upwards’ to culture as a signifying system, but
it is to insist that culture defined in this way, should be understood ‘as essentially
involved in all forms of social activity’ (Williams, 1981: 13). While there is more to life
than signifying systems, it is nevertheless the case that ‘it would . . . be wrong to suppose
that we can ever usefully discuss a social system without including, as a central
part of its practice, its signifying systems, on which, as a system, it fundamentally
depends’ (207).
Following this definition, and the discourse theory of Laclau and Mouffe, post-
Marxist cultural studies defines culture as the production, circulation, and consumption
of meanings. As Hall (1997b), for example, explains, ‘Culture . . . is not so much
a set of things – novels and paintings or TV programmes and comics – as a process, a
set of practices. Primarily, culture is concerned with the production and exchange of
meanings – the giving and taking of meaning’ (2). According to this definition, cultures
do not so much consist of, say, books; cultures are the shifting networks of signification
in which, say, books are made to signify as meaningful objects. For example, if I pass a
business card to someone in China, the polite way to do it is with two hands. If I pass
it with one hand I may cause offence. This is clearly a matter of culture. However, the
culture is not so much in the gesture as in the meaning of the gesture. In other words,
there is nothing essentially polite about using two hands; using two hands has been
made to signify politeness. Nevertheless, signification has become embodied in a material
practice, which may, in turn, produce material effects (I will say more about this
later). Similarly, as Marx (1976c) observed, ‘one man is king only because other men
stand in the relation of subjects to him. They, on the contrary, imagine that they are
subjects because he is king’ (149). This relationship works because they share a culture

Post-Marxism and cultural studies 87
in which such relations are meaningful. Outside such a culture this relationship would
be meaningless. Being a king, therefore, is not a gift of nature but something constructed
in culture. It is culture and not nature that gives the relation meaning.
To share a culture, therefore, is to interpret the world – make it meaningful and
experience it as meaningful – in recognizably similar ways. So-called ‘culture shock’
happens when we encounter radically different networks of meaning: when our ‘natural’
or our ‘common sense’ is confronted by someone else’s ‘natural’ or ‘common
sense’. However, cultures are never simply shifting networks of shared meanings.
On the contrary, cultures are always both shared and contested networks of meanings:
culture is where we share and contest meanings of ourselves, of each other and of the
social worlds in which we live.
Post-Marxist cultural studies draws two conclusions from this way of thinking about
culture. First, although the world exists in all its enabling and constraining materiality
outside culture, it is only in culture that the world can be made to mean. In other words,
culture constructs the realities it appears only to describe. Second, because different
meanings can be ascribed to the same ‘text’ (anything that can be made to signify),
meaning making (i.e. the making of culture) is always a potential site of struggle
and/or negotiation. For example, masculinity has real material conditions of existence,
which we think of as ‘biological’, but there are different ways of representing masculinity
in culture, different ways of ‘being masculine’. Moreover, these different ways
do not all carry the same claims to ‘authenticity’ and ‘normality’. Masculinity, therefore,
may depend on biological conditions of existence, but what it means, and the
struggle over what it means, always takes place in culture. This is not a question of
semantic difference – a simple question of interpreting the world differently – it is
about relations of culture and power; about who can claim the power and authority to
define social reality; to make the world (and the things in it) mean in particular ways.
Culture and power is the primary object of study in post-Marxist cultural studies. As
Hall (1997: 4) explains, ‘Meanings [i.e. cultures] . . . regulate and organize our conduct
and practices – they help to set the rules, norms and conventions by which social life
is ordered and governed. They are ..., therefore, what those who wish to govern and
regulate the conduct and ideas of others seek to structure and shape’. Meanings have a
‘material’ existence, in that they help organize practice; they establish norms of behaviour,
as we recognized in the examples of different masculinities and the passing of a
business card in China.
In other words, then, dominant ways of making the world meaningful, produced by
those with the power to make their meanings circulate in the world, can generate the
‘hegemonic truths’, which may come to assume an authority over the ways in which we
see, think, communicate and act in the world and become the ‘common sense’ which
directs our actions or become that against which our actions are directed. However,
although post-Marxist cultural studies recognizes that the culture industries are a major
site of ideological production, constructing powerful images, descriptions, definitions,
frames of reference for understanding the world, it rejects the view that ‘the people’
who consume these productions are ‘cultural dupes’, victims of ‘an up-dated form of
the opium of the people’. As Hall (2009b) insists,

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That judgment may make us feel right, decent and self-satisfied about our denunciations
of the agents of mass manipulation and deception – the capitalist cultural
industries: but I don’t know that it is a view which can survive for long as an
adequate account of cultural relationships; and even less as a socialist perspective
on the culture and nature of the working class. Ultimately, the notion of the people
as a purely passive, outline force is a deeply unsocialist perspective (512).
Post-Marxist cultural studies is informed by the proposition that people make popular
culture from the repertoire of commodities supplied by the culture industries. Making
popular culture (‘production in use’) can be empowering to subordinate and resistant
to dominant understandings of the world. But this is not to say that popular culture is
always empowering and resistant. To deny the passivity of consumption is not to deny
that sometimes consumption is passive; to deny that consumers are cultural dupes is
not to deny that the culture industries seek to manipulate. But it is to deny that popular
culture is little more than a degraded landscape of commercial and ideological
manipulation, imposed from above in order to make profit and secure social control.
Post-Marxist cultural studies insists that to decide these matters requires vigilance and
attention to the details of the production, distribution and consumption of the commodities
from which people may or may not make culture. These are not matters that
can be decided once and for all (outside the contingencies of history and politics) with
an elitist glance and a condescending sneer. Nor can they be read off from the moment
of production (locating meaning, pleasure, ideological effect, the probability of incorporation,
the possibility of resistance, in, variously, the intention, the means of production
or the production itself): these are only aspects of the contexts for ‘production
in use’; and it is, ultimately, in ‘production in use’ that questions of meaning, pleasure,
ideological effect, incorporation or resistance, can be (contingently) decided.
Further reading
Storey, John (ed.), Cultural Theory and Popular Culture: A Reader, 4th edition, Harlow:
Pearson Education, 2009. This is the companion volume to this book. It contains
examples of most of the work discussed here. This book and the companion Reader
are supported by an interactive website (www.pearsoned.co.uk/storey). The website
has links to other useful sites and electronic resources.
Barrett, Michele, The Politics of Truth: From Marx to Foucault, Cambridge: Polity Press,
1991. An interesting introduction to ‘post-Marxism’.
Bennett, Tony, Formalism and Marxism, London: Methuen, 1979. Contains helpful
chapters on Althusser and Macherey.
Bennett, Tony, Colin Mercer and Janet Woollacott (eds), Culture, Ideology and Social
Process, London: Batsford, 1981. Section 4 consists of extracts from Gramsci and

Further reading 89
three essays informed by hegemony theory. The book also contains similar sections
on culturalism and structuralism.
Hebdige, Dick, Subculture: The Meaning of Style, London: Methuen, 1979. The seminal
account of youth subcultures: an excellent introduction to hegemony theory and
popular culture.
Laing, Dave, The Marxist Theory of Art: An Introductory Survey, Hemel Hempstead:
Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1978. A very readable introduction to Marxist theories of
culture. Contains an interesting section on popular culture.
Marx, Karl and Frederick Engels, On Literature and Art, St Louis: Telos, 1973. A useful
selection of the writings by Marx and Engels on matters cultural.
Nelson, Cary and Lawrence Grossberg (eds), Marxism and the Interpretation of Culture,
London: Macmillan, 1988. An interesting collection of recent essays on Marxism
and culture.
Showstack Sassoon, Anne, (ed.), Approaches to Gramsci, London: Writers and Readers,
1982. A collection of essays on Gramsci. Contains a useful glossary of key terms.
Sim, Stuart (ed.), Post-Marxism: A Reader, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1998.
Interesting collection of essays on the question of post-Marxism.
Simon, Roger, Gramsci’s Political Thought: An Introduction, London: Lawrence & Wishart,
1982. A very readable introduction to Gramsci.
Slater, Phil, Origin and Significance of the Frankfurt School: A Marxist Perspective, London:
Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1977. The book provides a critical overview of the work of
the Frankfurt School. Chapter 4, on the culture industry, is of particular interest to
the student of popular culture.

5 Psychoanalysis
In this chapter I will explore psychoanalysis as a method of reading texts and practices.
This means that although I will to a certain extent explain how psychoanalysis understands
human behaviour, this will be done only as it can be extended to cultural analysis
in cultural studies. Therefore, I will be very selective in terms of which aspects of
psychoanalysis I choose for discussion.
Freudian psychoanalysis
Sigmund Freud (1973a) argues that the creation of civilization has resulted in the repression
of basic human instincts. Moreover, ‘each individual who makes a fresh entry
into human society repeats this sacrifice of instinctual satisfaction for the benefit of the
whole community’ (47). The most important instinctual drives are sexual. Civilization
demands that these are redirected in unconscious processes of sublimation:
that is to say, they are diverted from their sexual aims and directed to others that
are socially higher and no longer sexual. But this arrangement is unstable; the sexual
are imperfectly tamed, and, in the case of every individual who is supposed to
join in the work of civilization, there is a risk that his sexual instincts may refuse
to be put to that use. Society believes that no greater threat to its civilization could
arise than if the sexual instincts were to be liberated and returned to their original
aims (47–8). 16
Fundamental to this argument is Freud’s discovery of the unconscious. He first
divides the psyche into two parts, the conscious and the unconscious. The conscious is
the part that relates to the external world, while the unconscious is the site of instinctual
drives and repressed wishes. He then adds to this binary model the preconscious.
What we cannot remember at any given moment, but know we can recall with some
mental effort, is recovered from the preconscious. What is in the unconscious, as a consequence
of censorship and resistance, is only ever expressed in distorted form; we cannot,
as an act of will recall material from the unconscious into the conscious. Freud’s

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Figure 5.1 The Freudian psyche.
final model of the psyche introduces three new terms: the ego, the super-ego, and the
id (see Figure 5.1). 17
The id is the most primitive part of our being. It is the part of ‘our nature [which] is
impersonal, and, so to speak, subject to natural law’ (Freud, 1984: 362); it ‘is the dark,
inaccessible part of our personality ...a chaos, a cauldron full of seething excitations.
. . . It is filled with energy reaching it from the instincts, but it has no organization, produces
no collective will, but only a striving to bring about the satisfaction of the instinctual
needs subject to the observance of the pleasure principle’ (Freud, 1973b: 106).
The ego develops out of the id: ‘the ego cannot exist in the individual from the start;
the ego has to be developed’ (1984: 69). As he further explains, the ego
is that part of the id which has been modified by the direct influence of the external
world. . . . Moreover, the ego seeks to bring the influence of the external world
to bear upon the id and its tendencies, and endeavours to substitute the reality
principle for the pleasure principle which reigns unrestrictedly in the id. ...The
ego represents what may be called reason and common sense, in contrast to the id,
which contains the passions (363–4).
Freud (1973b) compares the relationship between the id and the ego as similar to a
person riding a horse: ‘The horse supplies the locomotive energy, while the rider has
the privilege of deciding on the goal and of guiding the powerful animal’s movement.
But only too often there arises between the ego and the id the not precisely ideal situation
of the rider being obliged to guide the horse along the path by which it itself
wants to go’ (109–10). In fact, the ego struggles to serve three masters, the ‘external
world’, the ‘libido of the id’, and the ‘severity of the super-ego’ (1984: 397).
It is with the dissolution of the Oedipus complex (discussed later in this chapter)
that the super-ego emerges. The super-ego begins as the internalization or introjection
of the authority of the child’s parents, especially of the father. This first authority is then
overlaid with other voices of authority, producing what we think of as ‘conscience’.
Although the super-ego is in many ways the voice of culture, it remains in alliance with
the id. Freud explains it thus: ‘Whereas the ego is essentially the representative of the
external world, of reality, the super-ego stands in contrast to it as the representative of

Figure 5.2 Freud’s conflict model of the human psyche.
Freudian psychoanalysis 93
the internal world, of the id’ (366). ‘Thus the super-ego is always close to the id and
can act as its representative vis-à-vis the ego. It reaches deep down into the id and for
that reason is farther from consciousness than the ego is’ (390). Furthermore, ‘Analysis
eventually shows that the super-ego is being influenced by processes that have
remained unknown to the ego’ (392).
There are two particular things to note about Freud’s model of the psyche. First, we
are born with an id, while the ego develops through contact with culture, which in turn
produces the super-ego. In other words, our ‘nature’ is governed (sometimes successfully,
sometimes not) by culture. What is called ‘human nature’ is not something
‘essentially’ natural but the governance of our nature by culture. This means that
human nature is not something innate and unchangeable, it is something at least in
part introduced from outside. Moreover, given that culture is always historical and variable,
it is itself always open to change. Second, and perhaps much more fundamental
to psychoanalysis, the psyche is envisaged as a site of perpetual conflict (see Figure 5.2).
The most fundamental conflict is between the id and the ego. The id wants desires
satisfied regardless of the claims of culture, while the ego, sometimes in loose alliance
with the super-ego, is obliged to meet the claims and conventions of society. This
conflict is sometimes portrayed as a struggle between the ‘pleasure principle’ and the
‘reality principle’. For example, while the id (governed by the pleasure principle) may
demand ‘I want it’ (whatever ‘it’ might be), the ego (governed by the reality principle)
must defer thinking about ‘it’ in order to consider how to get ‘it’.
‘The essence of repression’, according to Freud, ‘lies simply in turning something
away, and keeping it at a distance, from the conscious’ (147). In this way, then, we
could say that repression is a special form of amnesia; it removes all the things with
which we cannot or will not deal. But as Freud (1985) makes clear, we may have
repressed these things, but they have not really gone away: ‘Actually, we never give anything
up; we only exchange one thing for another. What appears to be a renunciation
is really the formation of a substitute or surrogate’ (133). These ‘substitutive formations’
make possible the ‘return of the repressed’ (Freud, 1984: 154). Dreams provide
perhaps the most dramatic staging of the return of the repressed. As Freud (1976)
claims, ‘The interpretation of dreams is the royal road to the unconscious’ (769).
The primary function of dreams is to be ‘the guardians of sleep which get rid of disturbances
of sleep’ (Freud, 1973a: 160). Sleep is threatened from three directions:
external stimulus, recent events, and ‘repressed instinctual impulses which are on the
watch for an opportunity of finding expression’ (45). Dreams guard sleep by incorporating
potential disturbances into the narrative of the dream. If, for example, a noise
sounds during sleep, a dream will attempt to include the noise in its narrative organization.
Similarly, when a sleeper experiences somatic disturbances (indigestion is the

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most obvious example), the dream will attempt to accommodate this in order not to
disturb the dreamer’s sleep. However, outside and inside stimulus of this sort is always
transformed. As he explains, ‘Dreams do not simply reproduce the stimulus; they work
it over, they make allusions to it, they include it in some context, they replace it by
something else’ (125). An alarm clock, for example, may appear as the sound of church
bells on a sunny Sunday morning or as the sound of the fire brigade rushing to the
scene of a devastating fire. Therefore, although we can recognize how outside stimulation
may contribute something to a dream, it does not explain why or how this something
is worked over. Similarly, dreams are also informed by recent experiences, ‘the
day’s residues’ (264). These may often determine much of the content of a dream, but,
as Freud insists, this, as with noise and somatic disturbances, is merely the material out
of which the dream is formulated and is not the same as the unconscious wish. As he
explains, the ‘unconscious impulse is the true creator of the dream; it is what produces
the psychical energy for the dream’s construction’ (1973b: 47).
Dreams, according to Freud, are always a ‘compromise-structure’ (48). That is, a
compromise between wishes emanating from the id and censorship enacted by the
ego: ‘If the meaning of our dreams usually remains obscure to us . . . it is because
[they contain] wishes of which we are ashamed; these we must conceal from ourselves,
and they have consequently been repressed, pushed into the unconscious. Repressed
wishes of this sort and their derivatives are only allowed to come to expression in a very
distorted form’ (1985: 136). Censorship occurs but wishes are expressed; that is, they
are coded in an attempt to elude censorship. According to Freud’s (1976) famous formulation,
‘a dream is a (disguised) fulfilment of a (suppressed or repressed) wish’ (244).
Dreams move between two levels: the latent dream thoughts (unconscious) and the
manifest content (what the dreamer remembers dreaming). Dream analysis attempts
to decode the manifest content in order to discover the ‘real meaning’ of the dream. To
do this it has to decipher the different mechanisms that have translated latent dream
thoughts into manifest content. He calls these mechanisms the ‘dream-work’ (2009:
246). The dream-work consists of four processes: condensation, displacement, symbolization,
and secondary revision. Each in turn produces ‘the transformation of
thoughts into hallucinatory experience’ (1973a: 250).
The manifest content is always smaller than the latent content. This is the result of
condensation, which can work in three different ways: (i) latent elements are omitted;
(ii) only part of a latent element arrives in the manifest content, and (iii) latent elements
which have something in common are condensed into ‘composite structures’
(2009: 247). ‘As a result of condensation, one element in the manifest dream may correspond
to numerous elements in the latent dream-thoughts; but, conversely too, one
element in the dream-thoughts may be represented by several images in [the manifest
content of] the dream’ (1973b: 49). Freud provides the following example:
You will have no difficulty in recalling instances from your own dreams of different
people being condensed into a single one. A compromise figure of this kind
may look like A perhaps, but may be dressed like B, may do something that we
remember C doing, and at the same time we may know that he is D (2009: ibid.).

Freudian psychoanalysis 95
Latent elements also appear in the manifest content via a chain of association or allusion
Freud calls displacement. This process works in two ways:
In the first, a latent element is replaced not by a component part of itself but by
something more remote – that is, by an allusion; and in the second, the psychical
accent is shifted from an important element on to another which is unimportant,
so that the dream appears differently centred and strange (248).
This first aspect of displacement operates along chains of association in which
what is in the manifest content alludes to something in the latent dream thoughts.
If, for example, I know someone who works as a schoolteacher, she may appear in
my dreams as a satchel. In this way, affect (the emotional intensity attached to the
figure) is shifted from its source (she who works in a school), to something associated
with her working in a school. Or if I know someone called Clarke, she may
appear in my dreams as someone working in an office. Again, affect has been moved
along a chain of association from the name of someone I know to an activity associated
with her name. I may have a dream situated in an office, in which I observe
someone working at a desk (it may not even be a woman), but the ‘essence’ of my
dream is a woman I know called Clarke. These examples work metonymically in terms
of similarity based on contraction: a part standing in for a whole. The second mechanism
of displacement changes the focus of the dream. What appears in the manifest
content is ‘differently centred from the dream-thoughts – its content has different
elements as its central point’ (1976: 414). ‘With the help of displacement the dreamcensorship
creates substitutive structures which . . . are allusions which are not easily
recognizable as such, from which the path back to the genuine thing is not easily
traced, and which are connected with the genuine thing by the strangest, most unusual,
external associations’ (1973a: 272). He illustrates this second aspect of displacement
with a joke.
There was a blacksmith in a village, who had committed a capital offence. The
Court decided that the crime must be punished; but as the blacksmith was the only
one in the village and was indispensable, and as on the other hand there were three
tailors living there, one of them was hanged instead (2009: 249).
In this example, the chain of association and affect has shifted dramatically. To get
back to the blacksmith from the fate of one of the tailors would require a great deal of
analysis, but the central idea seems to be: ‘Punishment must be exacted even if it does
not fall upon the guilty’ (1984: 386). Moreover, as he explains, ‘No other part of the
dream-work is so much responsible for making the dream strange and incomprehensible
to the dreamer. Displacement is the principal means used in the dream-distortion
to which the [latent] dream-thoughts must submit under the influence of the censorship’
(1973b: 50).
The third aspect of the dream-work, operative in the first two, is symbolization,
the ‘translation of dream-thoughts into a primitive mode of expression similar to

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picture-writing’ (1973a: 267), in which ‘the latent dream-thoughts . . . are dramatized
and illustrated’ (1973b: 47). Symbolization transforms ‘the latent [dream] thoughts
which are expressed in words into sensory images, mostly of a visual sort’ (1973a: 215).
But as Freud makes clear, not everything is transformed in this way: certain elements
exist in other forms. Nevertheless, symbols ‘comprise the essence of the formation of
dreams’ (2009: 249). Furthermore, ‘The very great majority of symbols in dreams’, as
Freud maintains, ‘are sexual symbols’ (1973a: 187). So, for example, male genitals are
represented in dreams by a range of ‘symbolic substitutes’ that are erect such as ‘sticks,
umbrellas, posts, trees’ and things that are able to penetrate such as ‘knives, daggers,
spears, sabres . . . rifles, pistols and revolvers’ (188). Female genitals are represented
by things that share the ‘characteristic of enclosing a hollow space which can take
something into itself’ such as ‘pits, cavities . . . hollows . . . vessels and bottles . . .
receptacles, boxes, trunks, cases, chests, pockets, and so on’ (189). These symbolic substitutes
are drawn from an ever-changing repertoire of symbols. He makes this clear
in his discussion of the way in which objects that are able to defy the laws of gravity
are used to represent the male erection. Writing in 1917, he points to the fact that
the Zeppelin airship had recently joined the repertoire of such objects (1976: 188).
Although these symbols are drawn from myths, religion, fairy stories, jokes, and everyday
language use, objects are not consciously selected from the repertoire: ‘the knowledge
of symbolism is unconscious to the dreamer . . . it belongs to his mental life’
(1973a: 200). Another example of the play of culture in psychoanalysis is language.
The associations a patient may bring to something will be enabled and constrained by
the language(s) he or she may speak. Moreover, the various examples that Freud
(1976) provides of words standing in for something other than their literal meaning,
is also limited to the language(s) the patient understands.
Freud is absolutely clear about ‘the impossibility of interpreting a dream unless one
has the dreamer’s associations to it at one’s disposal’ (1973b: 36). Symbols may provide
a preliminary answer to the question ‘What does this dream mean?’ But it is only
a preliminary answer, to be confirmed, or otherwise, by an analysis of other aspects of
the dream-work in conjunction with analysis of the associations brought into play by
the person whose dream is being analysed. As he warns: ‘I should like to utter an
express warning against overestimating the importance of symbols in dream-interpretation,
against restricting the work of translating dreams merely to translating symbols
and against abandoning the technique of making use of the dreamer’s associations’
(477). Moreover, symbols ‘frequently have more than one or even several meanings,
and . . . the correct interpretation can only be arrived at on each occasion from the context’
(1976: 470). Again, context will be something established by the dreamer.
The dream-work’s final process is secondary revision. This is the narrative placed by
the dreamer on the dream symbolism. It takes two forms. First, it is the verbal account
of the dream: the translation of symbols into language and narrative – ‘we fill in gaps
and introduce connections, and in doing so are often guilty of gross misunderstandings’
(1973b: 50). Second, and more importantly, secondary revision is the final policing
and channelling strategy of the ego, making meaning and coherence in an act of
(unconscious) censorship.

Freudian psychoanalysis 97
After the interpretation of dreams, Freud is perhaps best known for his theory of the
Oedipus complex. Freud develops the complex from Sophocles’ drama Oedipus the
King (c.427 BC). In Sophocles’ play Oedipus kills his father (unaware that he is his
father) and marries his mother (unaware that she is his mother). On discovering the
truth, Oedipus blinds himself and goes into exile. Freud developed two versions of the
Oedipus complex, one for boys and one for girls. At around the age of three to five
years, the mother (or who has the symbolic role of the mother) becomes an object of
the boy’s desire. In the light of this desire, the father (or who has the symbolic role of
the father) is seen as a rival for the mother’s love and affection. As a consequence, the
boy wishes for the father’s death. However, the boy fears the father’s power, in particular
his power to castrate. So the boy abandons his desire for the mother and begins to
identify with the father, confident in the knowledge that one day he will have the
father’s power, including a wife (a substitute symbolic mother) of his own.
Freud was unsure how the Oedipus complex worked for girls: ‘It must be admitted
. . . that in general our insight into these developmental processes in girls is unsatisfactory,
incomplete and vague’ (1977: 321). 18 As a consequence, he continued to revise
his thinking on this subject. One version begins with the girl desiring the father (or
who has the symbolic role of the father). The mother (or who has the symbolic role
of the mother) is seen as a rival for the father’s love and affection. The girl wishes for
the mother’s death. The complex is resolved when the girl identifies with the mother,
recognizing that one day she will be like her. But it is a resentful identification – the
mother lacks power. In another account, he argues that the Oedipus complex ‘seldom
goes beyond the taking her mother’s place and the adopting of a feminine attitude
towards her father’ (ibid.). Already aware that she has been castrated, the girl seeks
compensation: ‘She gives up her wish for a penis and puts in place of it a wish for
a child: and with that purpose in view she takes her father as a love-object’ (340). The
girl’s desire for her father’s child gradually diminishes: ‘One has the impression that
the Oedipus complex is then gradually given up because the wish is never fulfilled’
(321). The paradox being, ‘Whereas in boys the Oedipus complex is destroyed by
the castration complex, in girls it is made possible and led up to by the castration complex’
(341). 19
There at least two ways that Freudian psychoanalysis can be used as a method to
analyse texts. The first approach is author-centred, treating the text as the equivalent to
an author’s dream. Freud (1985) identifies what he calls ‘the class of dreams that have
never been dreamt at all – dreams created by imaginative writers and ascribed to
invented characters in the course of a story’ (33). The surface of a text (words and
images, etc.) are regarded as the manifest content, while the latent content is the
author’s hidden desires. Texts are read in this way to discover an author’s fantasies;
these are seen as the real meaning of the text. According to Freud (1973a),
An artist is . . . an introvert, not far removed from neurosis. He is oppressed by
excessively powerful instinctual needs. He desires to win honour, power, wealth,
and the love of women; but he lacks the means for achieving these satisfactions.
Consequently, like any other unsatisfied man, he turns away from reality and

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transfers all his interest, and his libido too, to the wishful constructions of his life
of phantasy, whence the path might lead to neurosis (423).
The artist sublimates his or her desire. In so doing, she or he makes his or her
fantasies available to others, thus making ‘it possible for others to share in the enjoyment
of them’ (423–4). He or she ‘makes it possible for other people . . . to derive consolation
and pleasure in their unconscious which have become inaccessible to them’
(424). Texts ‘allay ungratified wishes – in the first place in the creative artist himself and
subsequently in his audience or spectators’ (1986: 53). As he explains: ‘The artist’s first
aim is to set himself free and, by communicating his work to other people suffering
from the same arrested desires, he offers them the same liberation’ (53).
The second approach is reader-centred, and derives from the secondary aspect of the
author-centred approach. This approach is concerned with how texts allow readers to
symbolically play out desires and fantasies in the texts they read. In this way, a text
works like a substitute dream. Freud deploys the idea of ‘fore-pleasure’ to explain the
way in which the pleasures of the text ‘make possible the release of still greater pleasure
arising from deeper psychical sources’ (1985: 141). In other words, fictional texts
stage fantasies that offer the possibility of unconscious pleasure and satisfaction. As he
further explains,
In my opinion, all the aesthetic pleasure which a creative writer affords us has the
character of a fore-pleasure . . . our actual enjoyment of an imaginative work proceeds
from a liberation of tensions in our minds . . . enabling us thenceforward to
enjoy our day-dreams without self-reproach or shame (ibid.).
In other words, although we may derive pleasure from the aesthetic qualities of a text,
these are really only the mechanism that allows us access to the more profound pleasures
of unconscious fantasy.
Little Redcape
There was once a sweet little girl who was loved by everyone who so much as
looked at her, and most of all her grandmother loved her and was forever trying
to think of new presents to give the child. Once she gave her a little red velvet
cape, and because it suited her so well and she never again wanted to wear anything
else, she was known simply as Little Redcape. One day her mother said to
her: ‘Come, Little Redcape, here’s a piece of cake and a bottle of wine; take them
out to your grandmother, she’s sick and weak and she’ll enjoy them very much.
Set out before it gets hot, and when you’re on your way watch your step like a
good girl and don’t stray from the path, or you’ll fall and break the bottle and
grandmother will get nothing. And when you go into her room, remember to say
good morning and not to stare all round the room first.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll do everything as I should,’ said Little Redcape to her mother
and promised faithfully. Now her grandmother lived out in the forest, half an

Freudian psychoanalysis 99
hour from the village. And as Little Redcape entered the forest the wolf met her.
But Little Redcape didn’t know what a wicked beast he was, and wasn’t afraid of
him. ‘Good morning, Little Redcape,’ he said. ‘Thank you, wolf.’ ‘Where are you
going so early, Little Redcape?’ ‘To my grandmother’s.’ ‘What are you carrying
under your apron?’ ‘Cake and wine – we were baking yesterday, and my grandmother’s
ill and weak, so she’s to have something nice to help her get strong
again.’ ‘Little Redcape, where does your grandmother live?’ ‘A good quarter of an
hour’s walk further on in the forest, under the three big oak trees, that’s where her
house is; there are hazel hedges by it, I’m sure you know the place,’ said Little
Redcape. The wolf thought to itself: This delicate young thing, she’ll make a
plump morsel, she’ll taste even better than the old woman. But I must go about
it cunningly and I’ll catch them both. So he walked for a while beside Little
Redcape and then said: ‘Little Redcape, just look at those lovely flowers growing
all round us, why don’t you look about you? I think you don’t even notice how
sweetly the birds are singing. You’re walking straight ahead as if you were going
to school, and yet it’s such fun out here in the wood.
Little Redcape looked up, and when she saw the sunbeams dancing to and fro
between the trees and all the lovely flowers growing everywhere, she thought: If I
take Grandmama a bunch of fresh flowers, that’ll please her too; it’s so early that
I’ll still get there soon enough. And she ran off the path and into the forest to look
for flowers. And every time she picked one she seemed to see a prettier one growing
further on, and she ran to pick it and got deeper and deeper into the forest.
But the wolf went straight to her grandmother’s house and knocked at the door.
‘Who’s there?’ ‘Little Redcape, bringing you some cake and wine; open the door.’
‘Just push down the latch,’ said the grandmother, ‘I’m too weak to get out of bed.’
The wolf pushed down the latch, and without a word he went straight to the old
woman’s bed and gobbled her up. Then he put on her clothes and her nightcap
and lay down in her bed and closed the curtains.
But Little Redcape had been running about picking flowers, and when she had
collected so many that she couldn’t carry any more she remembered her grandmother
and set out again towards her house. She was surprised to find the door
open, and when she went into the room everything seemed so strange that she
thought: Oh my goodness, how nervous I feel today, and yet I always enjoy
visiting Grandmama! She called out: ‘Good morning,’ but got no answer. Then
she went to the bed and drew back the curtains – and there lay her grandmother
with her bonnet pulled down low over her face and looking so peculiar.
‘Why, Grandmama, what big ears you have!’ ‘The better to hear you with,’
‘Why Grandmama, what big eyes you have!’ ‘The better to see you with.’ ‘Why,
Grandmama, what big hands you have!’ ‘The better to grab you with.’ ‘But,
Grandmama, what terrible big jaws you have!’ ‘The better to eat you with.’ And
no sooner had the wolf said that than it made one bound out of the bed and
gobbled up poor Little Redcape.
Having satisfied its appetite, the wolf lay down on the bed again, went to sleep
and began to snore very loudly. The huntsman was just passing the house at that

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moment and he thought: How the old woman is snoring; let’s see if anything’s
the matter with her. So he came into the room, and when he got to the bed he
saw the wolf lying there: ‘So I’ve found you here, you old sinner,’ he said, ‘I’ve
been looking for you for a long time.’ He was just about to take aim with his gun
when it occurred to him that the wolf might have swallowed the old woman and
she might still be saved – so instead of firing he took a pair of scissors and began
to cut open the sleeping wolf’s stomach. When he had made a snip or two, he saw
the bright red of the little girl’s cape, and after another few snips she jumped out
and cried: ‘Oh, how frightened I was, how dark it was inside the wolf!’ And then
her old grandmother came out too, still alive though she could hardly breathe.
But Little Redcape quickly fetched some big stones, and with them they filled the
wolf’s belly, and when he woke up he tried to run away; but the stones were so
heavy that he collapsed at once and was killed by the fall.
At this all three of them were happy; the huntsman skinned the wolf and took
his skin home, the grandmother ate the cake and drank the wine that Little
Redcape had brought, and they made her feel much better. But Little Redcape said
to herself: As long as I live I’ll never again leave the path and run into the forest
by myself, when my mother has said I mustn’t.
The above is a fairy story collected by Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm in the early nineteenth
century. A psychoanalytic approach to this story would analyse it as a substitute
dream (looking for the processes of the dream-work) in which the drama of the
Oedipus complex is staged. Little Redcape is the daughter who desires the father
(played in the first instance by the wolf). To remove the mother (condensed into the
composite figure of mother and grandmother), Little Redcape directs the wolf to her
grandmother’s house. In a story that is extremely elliptical, it is significant that her
description of where her grandmother lives is the only real moment of detail in the
whole story. Answering the wolf’s question, she says, ‘A good quarter of an hour’s walk
further on in the forest, under the three big oak trees, that’s where her house is; there
are hazel hedges by it, I’m sure you know the place.’ The wolf eats the grandmother (a
displacement for sexual intercourse) and then eats Little Redcape. The story ends with
the huntsman (the post-Oedipal father) delivering the (grand)mother and daughter to
a post-Oedipal world, in which ‘normal’ family relations have been restored. The wolf
is dead and Little Redcape promises never again to ‘leave the path and run into the forest
by myself, when mother has said I mustn’t’. The final clause hints at Freud’s point
about a resentful identification. In addition to these examples of condensation and displacement,
the story contains many instances of symbolization. Examples include the
flowers, the forest, the path, the red velvet cape, the bottle of wine beneath her apron
(if she leaves the path she may ‘fall and break the bottle’) – all of these add a definite
symbolic charge to the narrative.
What Freud said about the interpretation of dreams should be borne in mind when
we consider the activities of readers. As you will recall, he warned about ‘the impossibility
of interpreting a dream unless one has the dreamer’s associations to it at one’s

disposal’ (1973b: 36). This raises some very interesting theoretical issues with regard to
the meaning of texts. It suggests that the meaning of a text is not merely in the text
itself; rather, that we need to know the associations a reader brings to bear upon the
text. In other words, he is clearly pointing to the claim that the reader does not passively
accept the meaning of a text: he or she actively produces its meaning, using the
discourses he or she brings to the encounter with the text. My particular reading of
Little Redcape is only possible because of my knowledge of Freudian discourse.
Without this knowledge, my interpretation would be very different.
Freud’s translation of psychoanalysis to textual analysis begins with a somewhat
crude version of psychobiography and ends with a rather sophisticated account of how
meanings are made. However, his suggestions about the real pleasures of reading may
have a certain disabling effect on psychoanalytic criticism. That is, if meaning depends
on the associations a reader brings to a text, what value can there be in psychoanalytic
textual analysis? When a psychoanalytic critic tells us that the text really means X, the
logic of Freudian psychoanalysis is to say that this is only what it means to you.
Lacanian psychoanalysis
Lacanian psychoanalysis 101
Jacques Lacan rereads Freud using the theoretical methodology developed by structuralism.
He seeks to anchor psychoanalysis firmly in culture rather than biology. As
he explains, his aim is to turn ‘the meaning of Freud’s work away from the biological
basis he would have wished for it towards the cultural references with which it is shot
through’ (1989: 116). He takes Freud’s developmental structure and rearticulates it
through a critical reading of structuralism to produce a post-structuralist psychoanalysis.
Lacan’s account of the development of the human ‘subject’ has had an enormous
influence on cultural studies, especially the study of film.
According to Lacan, we are born into a condition of ‘lack’, and subsequently spend
the rest of our lives trying to overcome this condition. ‘Lack’ is experienced in different
ways and as different things, but it is always a non-representable expression of the
fundamental condition of being human. The result is an endless quest in search of
an imagined moment of plenitude. Lacan figures this as a search for what he terms
l’objet petit a (the object small other); that which is desired but forever out of reach;
a lost object, signifying an imaginary moment in time. Unable to ever take hold of this
object, we console ourselves with displacement strategies and substitute objects.
Lacan argues that we make a journey through three determining stages of development.
The first is the ‘mirror stage’, the second is the ‘fort-da’ game, and the third is the
‘Oedipus complex’. Our lives begin in the realm Lacan calls the Real. Here we simply
are. In the Real we do not know where we end and where everything else begins. The
Real is like Nature before symbolization (i.e. before cultural classification). It is both
outside in what we might call ‘objective reality’ and inside in what Freud calls our
instinctual drives. The Real is everything before it became mediated by the Symbolic.

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The Symbolic cuts up the Real into separate parts. If it were possible to get beyond the
Symbolic, we would see the Real as everything merged into one mass. What we think
of as a natural disaster is an irruption of the Real. However, how we categorize it is
always from within the Symbolic; even when we call it a natural disaster, we have symbolized
the Real. To put it another way, nature as Nature is always an articulation of
culture: the Real exists, but always as a reality constituted (that is, brought into being)
by culture – the Symbolic. As Lacan explains it, ‘the kingdom of culture’ is superimposed
‘on that of nature’ (73): ‘the world of words . . . creates the world of things’ (72).
In the realm of the Real, our union with the mother (or who is playing this symbolic
role) is experienced as perfect and complete. We have no sense of a separate selfhood.
Our sense of being a unique individual only begins to emerge in what Lacan (2009)
calls ‘the mirror stage’. As Lacan points out, we are all born prematurely. It takes time
to be able to control and coordinate our movements. This has not been fully accomplished
when the infant first sees itself in a mirror (between the ages of 6 and 18
months). 20 The infant, ‘still sunk in his motor incapacity and nursling dependence’
(256), forms an identification with the image in the mirror. The mirror suggests control
and coordination that as yet does not exist. Therefore, when the infant first sees itself
in a mirror, it sees not only an image of its current self but also the promise of a more
complete self; it is in this promise that the ego begins to emerge. According to Lacan,
‘The mirror stage is a drama whose internal thrust is precipitated from insufficiency
to anticipation – and which manufactures for the subject, caught up in the lure of
spatial identification, the succession of phantasies that extends from a fragmented
body-image to a form of its totality’ (257). On the basis of this recognition or, more
properly, misrecognition (not the self, but an image of the self), we begin to see
ourselves as separate individuals: that is, as both subject (self that looks) and object
(self that is looked at). The ‘mirror phase’ heralds the moment of entry into an order
of subjectivity Lacan calls the Imaginary:
The imaginary for Lacan is precisely this realm of images in which we make
identifications, but in the very act of doing so we are led to misperceive and misrecognize
ourselves. As a child grows up, it will continue to make such imaginary
identifications with objects, and this is how the ego will be built up. For Lacan, the
ego is just this narcissistic process whereby we bolster up a fictive sense of unitary
selfhood by finding something in the world with which we can identify (Eagleton,
1983: 165).
With each new image we will attempt to return to a time before ‘lack’, to find ourselves
in what is not ourselves; and each time we will fail. ‘The subject . . . is the place of lack,
an empty place that various attempts at identification try to fill’ (Laclau, 1993: 436).
In other words, desire is the desire to find that which we lack, our selves whole again,
as we were before we encountered the Imaginary and the Symbolic. All our acts of
identification are always acts of misidentification; it is never our selves that we recognize
but only ever another potential image of our selves. ‘[D]esire is a metonymy’
(Lacan, 1989: 193): it allows us to discover another part, but never ever the whole.

Lacanian psychoanalysis 103
The second stage of development is the ‘fort-da’ game, originally named by Freud
after watching his grandson throw a cotton reel away (‘gone’) and then pull it back
again by means of an attached thread (‘here’). Freud saw this as the child’s way of coming
to terms with its mother’s absence – the reel symbolically representing the mother,
over which the child is exerting mastery. In other words, the child compensates for his
mother’s disappearance by taking control of the situation: he makes her disappear
(fort) and then reappear (da). Lacan rereads this as a representation of the child beginning
to enter the Symbolic, and, in particular, its introduction into language: ‘the
moment when desire becomes human is also that in which the child is born into language’
(113). Like the ‘fort-da’ game, language is ‘a presence made of absence’ (71).
Once we enter language, the completeness of the Real is gone forever. Language introduces
an alienating split between being and meaning; before language we had only
being (a self-complete nature), after language we are both object and subject: this is
made manifest every time I think (subject) about myself (object). In other words, ‘I
identify myself in language, but only by losing myself in it like an object’ (94). I am ‘I’
when I speak to you and ‘you’ when you speak to me. As Lacan explains, ‘It is not a
question of knowing whether I speak of myself in a way that conforms to what I am,
but rather of knowing whether I am the same as that of which I speak’ (182). In an
attempt to explain this division, Lacan rewrites Rene Descartes’s (1993) ‘I think therefore
I am’ as ‘I think where I am not, therefore I am where I do not think’ (Lacan, 1989:
183). In this formulation ‘I think’ is the subject of the enunciation (the Imaginary/
Symbolic subject) and ‘I am’ is the subject of the enunciated (the Real subject).
Therefore, there is always a gap between the I who speaks and the I of whom is
spoken. Entry into the Symbolic results in what Lacan (2001) describes as castration:
the symbolic loss of being that is necessary to enter meaning. In order to engage in
culture we have given up self-identity with our nature. When ‘I’ speak I am always
different from the ‘I’ of whom I speak, always sliding into difference and defeat: ‘when
the subject appears somewhere as meaning, he is manifested elsewhere as “fading”,
as disappearance’ (218).
The Symbolic is an intersubjective network of meanings, which exists as a structure
we must enter. As such, it is very similar to the way in which culture is understood in
post-Marxist cultural studies (see Chapter 4). It is, therefore, what we experience as
reality: reality being the symbolic organization of the Real. Once in the Symbolic our
subjectivity is both enabled (we can do things and make meaning) and constrained
(there are limits to what we can do and how we can make meaning). The Symbolic
order confirms who we are. I may think I am this or that, but unless this is confirmed
– unless I and others can recognize this in the Symbolic – it will not be really true. The
day before I was awarded my first degree I was no more intelligent than the day after,
but in a symbolic sense I was: I now had a degree! The Symbolic order recognized and
therefore allowed me and others to recognize my new intellectual status.
The third stage of development is the ‘Oedipus complex’: the encounter with sexual
difference. Successful completion of the Oedipus complex enforces our transition from
the Imaginary to the Symbolic. It also compounds our sense of ‘lack’. The impossibility
of fulfilment is now experienced as a movement from signifier to signifier, unable

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to fix upon a signified. For Lacan (1989), desire is the hopeless pursuit of the fixed
signified (the ‘other’, the ‘Real’, the moment of plenitude, the mother’s body), always
forever becoming another signifier – the ‘incessant sliding of the signified under the
signifier’ (170). Desire exists in the impossibility of closing the gap between self and other
– to make good that which we ‘lack’. We long for a time when we existed in ‘nature’
(inseparable from the mother’s body), where everything was simply itself, before the
mediations of language and the Symbolic. As we move forward through the narrative
of our lives, we are driven by a desire to overcome the condition, and as we look back,
we continue to ‘believe’ (this is mostly an unconscious process) that the union with the
mother (or the person playing the symbolic role of the mother) was a moment of plenitude
before the fall into ‘lack’. The ‘lesson’ of the ‘Oedipus complex’ is that
[t]he child must now resign itself to the fact that it can never have any direct access
to . . . the prohibited body of the mother. . . . [A]fter the Oedipus crisis, we will
never again be able to attain this precious object, even though we will spend all our
lives hunting for it. We have to make do instead with substitute objects . . . with
which we try vainly to plug the gap at the very centre of our being. We move
among substitutes for substitutes, metaphors for metaphors, never able to recover
the pure (if fictive) self-identity and self-completion. ...In Lacanian theory, it is
an original lost object – the mother’s body – which drives forward the narrative of
our lives, impelling us to pursue substitutes for this lost paradise in the endless
metonymic movement of desire (Eagleton, 1983: 167, 168, 185).
The ideology of romantic love – in which ‘love’ is the ultimate solution to all our
problems – could be cited as an example of this endless search. What I mean by this is
the way that romance as a discursive practice (see discussion of Foucault in Chapter 6
and post-Marxism in Chapter 4) holds that love makes us whole, it completes our
being. Love in effect promises to return us to the Real: that blissful moment of plenitude,
inseparable from the body of the mother. We can see this played out in the
masculine romance of Paris, Texas. The film can be read as a road movie of the unconscious,
a figuration of Travis Henderson’s impossible struggle to return to the moment
of plenitude. The film stages three attempts at return: first, Travis goes to Mexico in
search of his mother’s origins; then he goes to Paris (Texas) in search of the moment
when he was conceived in his mother’s body; finally, in an act of ‘displacement’, he
returns Hunter to Jane (a son to his mother), in symbolic recognition that his own quest
is doomed to failure.
Cine-psychoanalysis
Laura Mulvey’s (1975) essay ‘Visual pleasure and narrative cinema’ is perhaps the classic
statement on popular film from the perspective of feminist psychoanalysis. The

Cine-psychoanalysis 105
essay is concerned with how popular cinema produces and reproduces what she
calls the ‘male gaze’. Mulvey describes her approach as ‘political psychoanalysis’.
Psychoanalytic theory is ‘appropriated . . . as a political weapon [to demonstrate] the
way the unconscious of patriarchal society has structured film form’ (6).
The inscription of the image of woman in this system is twofold: (i) she is the object
of male desire, and (ii) she is the signifier of the threat of castration. In order to challenge
popular cinema’s ‘manipulation of visual pleasure’, Mulvey calls for what she
describes as the ‘destruction of pleasure as a radical weapon’ (7). She is uncompromising
on this point: ‘It is said that analysing pleasure, or beauty, destroys it. This is
the intention of this article’ (8).
So what are the pleasures that must be destroyed? She identifies two. First, there is
scopophilia, the pleasure of looking. Citing Freud, she suggests that it is always more
than just the pleasure of looking: scopophilia involves ‘taking other people as objects,
subjecting them to a controlling gaze’ (ibid.). The notion of the controlling gaze is crucial
to her argument. But so is sexual objectification: scopophilia is also sexual, ‘using
another person as an object of sexual stimulation through sight’ (10). Although it
clearly presents itself to be seen, Mulvey argues that the conventions of popular cinema
are such as to suggest a ‘hermetically sealed world which unwinds magically, indifferent
to the presence of the audience’ (9). The audience’s ‘voyeuristic fantasy’ is encouraged
by the contrast between the darkness of the cinema and the changing patterns of
light on the screen.
Popular cinema promotes and satisfies a second pleasure: ‘developing scopophilia
in its narcissistic aspect’ (ibid.). Here Mulvey draws on Lacan’s (2009) account of the
‘mirror stage’ (see earlier section) to suggest that there is an analogy to be made
between the constitution of a child’s ego and the pleasures of cinematic identification.
Just as a child recognizes and misrecognizes itself in the mirror, the spectator recognizes
and misrecognizes itself on the screen. She explains it thus:
The mirror phase occurs at a time when the child’s physical ambitions outstrip his
motor capacity, with the result that his recognition of himself is joyous in that
he imagines his mirror image to be more complete, more perfect than he experiences
his own body. Recognition is thus overlaid with misrecognition: the image
recognised is conceived as the reflected body of the self, but its misrecognition as
superior projects this body outside itself as an ideal ego, the alienated subject,
which, re-introjected as an ego ideal, gives rise to the future generation of identification
with others (9–10).
Her argument is that popular cinema produces two contradictory forms of visual
pleasure. The first invites scopophilia; the second promotes narcissism. The contradiction
arises because ‘in film terms, one implies a separation of the erotic identity of the
subject from the object on the screen (active scopophilia), the other demands identification
of the ego with the object on the screen through the spectator’s fascination
with and recognition of his like’ (10). In Freudian terms, the separation is between
‘scopophilic instinct (pleasure in looking at another person as an erotic object)’ and

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‘ego libido (forming identification processes)’ (17). But in a world structured by
‘sexual imbalance’, the pleasure of the gaze has been separated into two distinct positions:
men look and women exhibit ‘to-be-looked-at-ness’ – both playing to, and signifying,
male desire (11). Women are therefore crucial to the pleasure of the (male) gaze.
Traditionally, the woman displayed has functioned on two levels: as erotic object
for the characters within the screen story, and as erotic object for the spectator
within the auditorium, with a shifting tension between the looks on either side of
the screen (11–12).
She gives the example of the showgirl who can be seen to dance for both looks.
When the heroine removes her clothes, it is for the sexual gaze of both the hero in the
narrative and the spectator in the auditorium. It is only when they subsequently make
love that a tension arises between the two looks.
Popular cinema is structured around two moments: moments of narrative and
moments of spectacle. The first is associated with the active male, the second with the
passive female. The male spectator fixes his gaze on the hero (‘the bearer of the look’)
to satisfy ego formation, and through the hero to the heroine (‘the erotic look’) to
satisfy libido. The first look recalls the moment of recognition/misrecognition in front
of the mirror. The second look confirms women as sexual objects. The second look is
made more complex by the claim that
[u]ltimately, the meaning of woman is sexual difference. . . . She connotes something
that the look continually circles around but disavows: her lack of a penis,
implying a threat of castration and hence unpleasure. . . . Thus the woman as icon,
displayed for the gaze and enjoyment of men, the active controllers of the look,
always threatens to evoke the anxiety it originally signified (13).
To salvage pleasure and escape an unpleasurable re-enactment of the original castration
complex, the male unconscious can take two routes to safety. The first means of
escape is through detailed investigation of the original moment of trauma, usually
leading to ‘the devaluation, punishment or saving of the guilty object’ (ibid.). She cites
the narratives of film noir as typical of this method of anxiety control. The second
means of escape is through ‘complete disavowal of castration by the substitution of a
fetish object or turning the represented figure itself into a fetish so that it becomes reassuring
rather than dangerous’ (13–14). She gives the example of ‘the cult of the female
star . . . [in which] fetishistic scopophilia builds up the physical beauty of the object,
transforming it into something satisfying in itself’ (14). This often leads to the erotic
look of the spectator no longer being borne by the look of the male protagonist, producing
moments of pure erotic spectacle as the camera holds the female body (often
focusing on particular parts of the body) for the unmediated erotic look of the spectator.
Mulvey concludes her argument by suggesting that the pleasure of popular cinema
must be destroyed in order to liberate women from the exploitation and oppression of
being the ‘(passive) raw material for the (active) male gaze’ (17). She proposes what

amounts to a Brechtian revolution in the making of films. 21 To produce a cinema no
longer ‘obsessively subordinated to the neurotic needs of the male ego’ (18), it is necessary
to break with illusionism, making the camera material, and producing in the
audience ‘dialectics, passionate detachment’ (ibid.). Moreover, ‘[w]omen, whose image
has continually been stolen and used for this end [objects of the male gaze], cannot
view the decline of the traditional film form with anything much more than sentimental
regret’ (ibid.). (For feminist criticisms of Mulvey’s argument, see Chapter 7).
Slavoj 2i4ek and Lacanian fantasy
Slavoj biaek and Lacanian fantasy 107
Terry Eagleton describes the Slovenian critic Slavoj yizek ‘as the most formidably brilliant
exponent of psychoanalysis, indeed of cultural theory in general, to have emerged
in Europe for some decades (quoted in Myers, 2003: 1). Ian Parker (2004), on the
other hand, claims that ‘[t]here is no theoretical system as such in yizek’s work, but it
often seems as if there is one. . . . He does not actually add any specific concepts to
those of other theorists but articulates and blends the concepts of others’ (115, 157).
The three main influences on yizek’s work are the philosophy of Georg Wilhelm
Friedrich Hegel, the politics of Marx and the psychoanalysis of Lacan. It is, however,
the influence of Lacan that organizes the place of Marx and Hegel in his work. Whether
we agree with Eagleton or Parker, what is true is that yizek is an interesting reader of
texts (see, for example, yizek, 1991, 2009). In this short account, I will focus almost
exclusively on his elaboration of the Lacanian notion of fantasy.
Fantasy is not the same as illusion; rather, fantasy organizes how we see and understand
reality. It works as a frame through which we see and make sense of the world.
Our fantasies are what make us unique; they provide us with our point of view; organizing
how we see and experience the world around us. When the pop musician Jarvis
Cocker (former lead singer with Pulp) appeared on BBC Radio 4’s long-running programme,
Desert Island Discs (24 April 2005), he made this comment: ‘It doesn’t really
matter where things happen, it’s kinda what’s going on in your head that makes life
interesting.’ This is an excellent example of the organizing role of fantasy.
yizek (1989) argues that ‘ “Reality” is a fantasy construction which enables us to
mask the Real of our desire’ (45). Freud (1976) gives an account of a man who dreams
that his dead son came to him to complain, ‘Can’t you see that I am burning?’ The
father, Freud argues, is awoken by the overwhelming smell of burning. In other words,
the outside stimulation (burning), which had been incorporated into the dream, had
become too strong to be accommodated by the dream. According to yizek (1989),
The Lacanian reading is directly opposed to this. The subject does not awake himself
when the external irritation becomes too strong; the logic of his awakening is
quite different. First he constructs a dream, a story which enables him to prolong his
sleep, to avoid awakening into reality. But the thing that he encounters in the dream,

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the reality of his desire, the Lacanian Real – in our case, the reality of the child’s
reproach to his father, ‘Can’t you see that I am burning?’, implying the father’s fundamental
guilt – is more terrifying than so-called external reality itself, and that is
why he awakens: to escape the Real of his desire, which announces itself in the
terrifying dream. He escapes into so-called reality to be able to continue to sleep,
to maintain his blindness, to elude awakening into the real of his desire (45).
It is the father’s guilt about not having done enough to prevent his son’s death that is
the Real that the dream seeks to conceal. In other words, the reality to which he awakes
is less Real than that which he encountered in his dream.
yizek (2009) provides other examples from popular culture of the fantasy construction
of reality. Rather than fulfilling desire, fantasy is the staging of desire. As he explains,
[W]hat the fantasy stages is not a scene in which our desire is fulfilled, fully
satisfied, but on the contrary, a scene that realises, stages, the desire as such. The
fundamental point of psychoanalysis is that desire is not something given in
advance, but something that has to be constructed – and it is precisely the role of
fantasy to give the coordinates of the subject’s desire, to specify its object, to locate
the position the subject assumes in it. It is only through fantasy that the subject is
constituted as desiring: through fantasy, we learn how to desire (335).
In this way, then, ‘fantasy space functions as an empty surface, a kind of screen for the
projection of desires’ (336). He gives as an example a short story by Patricia Highsmith,
‘Black House’. In a small American town old men gather in a bar each evening to
remember the past. In different ways their memories always seem to become focused
on an old black house on a hill just outside town. It is in this house that each man can
recall certain adventures, especially sexual, having taken place. There is now, however,
a general agreement amongst the men that it would be dangerous to go back to the
house. A young newcomer to the town informs the men that he is not afraid to visit
the old house. When he does explore the house, he finds only ruin and decay.
Returning to the bar, he informs the men that the black house is no different from any
other old, decaying property. The men are outraged by this news. As he leaves, one of
the men attacks him, resulting in the young newcomer’s death. Why were the men so
outraged by the young newcomer’s behaviour? yizek explains it thus:
[T]he ‘black house’ was forbidden to the men because it functioned as an empty
space wherein they could project their nostalgic desires, their distorted memories;
by publicly stating that the ‘black house’ was nothing but an old ruin, the young
intruder reduced their fantasy space to everyday, common reality. He annulled the
difference between reality and fantasy space, depriving the men of the place in
which they were able to articulate their desires (337).
Desire is never fulfilled or fully satisfied, it is endlessly reproduced in our fantasies.
‘Anxiety is brought on by the disappearance of desire’ (336). In other words, anxiety is

the result of getting too close to what we desire, thus threatening to eliminate ‘lack’
itself and end desire. This is further complicated by the retroactive nature of desire. As
yizek observes, ‘The paradox of desire is that it posits retroactively its own cause, i.e.
the objet a [object small other] is an object that can be perceived only by a gaze “distorted”
by desire, an object that does not exist for an “objective” gaze’ (339). In other
words, what I desire is organized by processes of fantasy which fix on an object and
generate a desire which appears to have drawn me to the object but which in fact did
not exist until I first fixed upon the object: what appears to be a forward movement is
always retroactive.
Further reading
Further reading 109
Storey, John (ed.), Cultural Theory and Popular Culture: A Reader, 4th edition, Harlow:
Pearson Education, 2009. This is the companion volume to this book. It contains
examples of most of the work discussed here. This book and the companion Reader
are supported by an interactive website (www.pearsoned.co.uk/storey). The website
has links to other useful sites and electronic resources.
Belsey, Catherine, Culture and the Real, London: Routledge, 2005. A very clear account
of Lacan and yizek.
Easthope, Antony, The Unconscious, London: Routledge, 1999. An excellent introduction
to psychoanalysis. Highly recommended.
Evans, Dylan, An Introductory Dictionary of Lacanian Psychoanalysis, London: Routledge,
1996. Indispensable for understanding Lacan.
Frosh, Stephen, Key Concepts in Psychoanalysis, London: British Library, 2002. An excellent
introduction.
Kay, Sarah, yiZek: A Critical Introduction, Cambridge: Polity Press, 2003. An excellent
introduction. I particularly like the way she acknowledges that sometimes she just
does not understand what yizek is saying.
Laplanche, J. and J.-B. Pontalis, The Language of Psychoanalysis, London: Karnac Books,
1988. A brilliant glossary of concepts.
Mitchell, Juliet, Psychoanalysis and Feminism, Harmondsworth: Pelican, 1974. A classic
and groundbreaking account of how feminism can use psychoanalysis to undermine
patriarchy. As she claims, ‘psychoanalysis is not a recommendation for a patriarchal
society, but an analysis of one.’
Myers, Tony, Slavoj YiZek, London: Routledge, 2003. A very accessible introduction to
yizek’s work.
Parker, Ian, Slavoj YiZek: A Critical Introduction, London: Pluto, 2004. Another very good
account of yizek’s work. The most critical of the recent introduction.
Wright, Elizabeth, Psychoanalytic Criticism, London: Methuen, 1984. A very good introduction
to psychoanalytic criticism.

6 Structuralism and
post-structuralism
Structuralism, unlike the other approaches discussed here, is, as Terry Eagleton (1983)
points out, ‘quite indifferent to the cultural value of its object: anything from War and
Peace to The War Cry will do. The method is analytical, not evaluative’ (96). Structuralism
is a way of approaching texts and practices that is derived from the theoretical
work of the Swiss linguist Ferdinand de Saussure. Its principal exponents are French:
Louis Althusser in Marxist theory, Roland Barthes in literary and cultural studies,
Michel Foucault in philosophy and history, Jacques Lacan in psychoanalysis, Claude
Lévi-Strauss in anthropology and Pierre Macherey in literary theory. Their work is often
very different, and at times very difficult. What unites these authors is the influence of
Saussure, and the use of a particular vocabulary drawn from his work. It is as well, then,
to start our exploration with a consideration of his work in linguistics. This is best
approached by examining a number of key concepts.
Ferdinand de Saussure
Saussure divides language into two component parts. When I write the word ‘dog’ it
produces the inscription ‘dog’, but also the concept or mental image of a dog: a fourlegged
canine creature. He calls the first the ‘signifier’, and the second the ‘signified’.
Together (like two sides of a coin or a sheet of paper) they make up the ‘sign’. He then
goes on to argue that the relationship between signifier and signified is completely
arbitrary. The word ‘dog’, for example, has no dog-like qualities; there is no reason why
the signifier ‘dog’ should produce the signified ‘dog’: four-legged canine creature (other
languages have different signifiers to produce the same signified). The relationship
between the two is simply the result of convention – of cultural agreement. The
signifier ‘dog’ could just as easily produce the signified ‘cat’: four-legged feline creature.
On the basis of this claim, he suggests that meaning is not the result of an essential correspondence
between signifiers and signifieds; it is rather the result of difference and
relationship. In other words, Saussure’s is a relational theory of language. Meaning is
produced, not through a one-to-one relation to things in the world, but by establishing
difference. For example, ‘mother’ has meaning in relation to ‘father’, ‘daughter’,

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‘son’, etc. For example, traffic lights operate within a system of four signs: red = stop,
green = go, amber = prepare for red, amber and red = prepare for green. The relationship
between the signifier ‘green’ and the signified ‘go’ is arbitrary; there is nothing in
the colour green that naturally attaches it to the verb ‘go’. Traffic lights would work
equally well if red signified ‘go’ and green signified ‘stop’. The system works not by
expressing a natural meaning but by marking a difference, a distinction within a system
of difference and relationships. To make the point about meaning being relational
rather than substantial, Saussure gives the example of train systems. The 12.11 from
Bochum to Bremen, for instance, runs every day at the same time. To each of these
trains we assign the same identity (‘the 12.11 from Bochum to Bremen’). However, we
know that the locomotive, the carriages, the staff, are unlikely to be the same each day.
The identity of the train is not fixed by its substance, but by its relational distinction
from other trains, running at other times, on other routes. Saussure’s other example is
the game of chess. A knight, for example, could be represented in any way a designer
thought desirable, provided that how it was represented marked it as different from the
other chess pieces.
According to Saussure, meaning is also made in a process of combination and selection,
horizontally along the syntagmatic axis, and vertically along the paradigmatic
axis. For example, the sentence, ‘Miriam made chicken broth today’, is meaningful
through the accumulation of its different parts: Miriam/made/chicken broth/today.
Its meaning is only complete once the final word is spoken or inscribed. Saussure calls
this process the syntagmatic axis of language. One can add other parts to extend its
meaningfulness: ‘Miriam made chicken broth today while dreaming about her lover.’
Meaning is thus accumulated along the syntagmatic axis of language. This is perfectly
clear when a sentence is interrupted. For example, ‘I was going to say that . . .’; ‘It is
clear to me that Luie should . . .’; ‘You promised to tell me about . . .’.
Substituting certain parts of the sentence for new parts can also change meaning. For
example, I could write, ‘Miriam made salad today while dreaming about her lover’ or
‘Miriam made chicken broth today while dreaming about her new car’. Such substitutions
are said to be operating along the paradigmatic axis of language. Let us consider
a more politically charged example. ‘Terrorists carried out an attack on an army base
today.’ Substitutions from the paradigmatic axis could alter the meaning of this sentence
considerably. If we substitute ‘freedom fighters’ or ‘anti-imperialist volunteers’ for
the word ‘terrorists’ we would have a sentence meaningful in quite a different way. This
would be achieved without any reference to a corresponding reality outside of the
sentence itself. The meaning of the sentence is produced through a process of selection
and combination. This is because the relationship between ‘sign’ and ‘referent’ (in our
earlier example, real dogs in the real world) is also arbitrary. It follows, therefore, that
the language we speak does not simply reflect the material reality of the world; rather,
by providing us with a conceptual map with which to impose a certain order on what
we see and experience, the language we speak plays a significant role in shaping what
constitutes for us the reality of the material world.
Structuralists argue that language organizes and constructs our sense of reality – different
languages in effect produce different mappings of the real. When, for example, a

Ferdinand de Saussure 113
European gazes at a snowscape, he or she sees snow. An Inuit, with over fifty words to
describe snow, looking at the same snowscape would presumably see so much more.
Therefore an Inuit and a European standing together surveying the snowscape would
in fact be seeing two quite different conceptual scenes. Similarly, Australian Aborigines
have many words to describe the desert. What these examples demonstrate to a structuralist
is that the way we conceptualize the world is ultimately dependent on the
language we speak. And by analogy, it will depend on the culture we inhabit. The
meanings made possible by language are thus the result of the interplay of a network
of relationships between combination and selection, similarity and difference.
Meaning cannot be accounted for by reference to an extra-linguistic reality. As Saussure
(1974) insists, ‘in language there are only differences without positive terms ...
[L]anguage has neither ideas nor sounds that existed before the linguistic system, but
only conceptual and phonic differences that have issued from the system’ (120). We
might want to query this assumption by noting that Inuits name the snowscape differently
because of the material bearing it has on their day-to-day existence. It could also
be objected that substituting ‘terrorists’ for ‘freedom fighters’ produces meanings not
accounted for purely by linguistics (see Chapter 4).
Saussure makes another distinction that has proved essential to the development of
structuralism. This is the division of language into langue and parole. Langue refers to
the system of language, the rules and conventions that organize it. This is language as
a social institution, and as Roland Barthes (1967) points out, ‘it is essentially a collective
contract which one must accept in its entirety if one wishes to communicate’ (14).
Parole refers to the individual utterance, the individual use of language. To clarify this
point, Saussure compares language to the game of chess. Here we can distinguish
between the rules of the game and an actual game of chess. Without the body of rules
there could be no actual game, but it is only in an actual game that these rules are made
manifest. Therefore, there is langue and parole, structure and performance. It is the
homogeneity of the structure that makes the heterogeneity of the performance possible.
Finally, Saussure distinguishes between two theoretical approaches to linguistics.
The diachronic approach which studies the historical development of a given language,
and the synchronic approach which studies a given language in one particular moment
in time. He argues that in order to found a science of linguistics it is necessary to adopt
a synchronic approach. Structuralists have, generally speaking, taken the synchronic
approach to the study of texts or practices. They argue that in order to really understand
a text or practice it is necessary to focus exclusively on its structural properties. This of
course allows critics hostile to structuralism to criticize it for its ahistorical approach to
culture.
Structuralism takes two basic ideas from Saussure’s work. First, a concern with the
underlying relations of texts and practices, the ‘grammar’ that makes meaning possible.
Second, the view that meaning is always the result of the interplay of relationships of
selection and combination made possible by the underlying structure. In other words,
texts and practices are studied as analogous to language. Imagine, for example, that
aliens from outer space had landed in Barcelona in May 1999, and as an earthly display
of welcome they were invited to attend the Champions League Final between

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Manchester United and Bayern Munich. What would they witness? Two groups of men
in different coloured costumes, one red, the other in silver and maroon, moving at different
speeds, in different directions, across a green surface, marked with white lines.
They would notice that a white spherical projectile appeared to have some influence on
the various patterns of cooperation and competition. They would also notice a man
dressed in dark green, with a whistle which he blew to stop and start the combinations
of play. They would also note that he appeared to be supported by two other men
also dressed in dark green, one on either side of the main activity, each using a flag to
support the limited authority of the man with the whistle. Finally, they would note the
presence of two men, one at each end of the playing area, standing in front of partly
netted structures. They would see that periodically these men engaged in acrobatic
routines that involved contact with the white projectile. The visiting aliens could
observe the occasion and describe what they saw to each other, but unless someone
explained to them the rules of association football, its structure, the Champions League
Final, in which Manchester United became the first team in history to win the ‘treble’
of Champions League, Premier League and FA Cup, would make very little sense to
them at all. It is the underlying rules of cultural texts and practices that interest structuralists.
It is structure that makes meaning possible. The task of structuralism, therefore,
is to make explicit the rules and conventions (the structure) which govern the
production of meaning (acts of parole).
Claude Lévi-Strauss, Will Wright and the American
Western
Claude Lévi-Strauss (1968) uses Saussure to help him discover the ‘unconscious foundations’
(18) of the culture of so-called ‘primitive’ societies. He analyses cooking, manners,
modes of dress, aesthetic activity and other forms of cultural and social practices
as analogous to systems of language; each in its different way is a mode of communication,
a form of expression. As Terence Hawkes (1977) points out, ‘His quarry, in
short, is the langue of the whole culture; its system and its general laws: he stalks it
through the particular varieties of its parole’ (39). In pursuit of his quarry, Lévi-Strauss
investigates a number of ‘systems’. It is, however, his analysis of myth that is of central
interest to the student of popular culture. He claims that beneath the vast heterogeneity
of myths, there can be discovered a homogeneous structure. In short, he argues that
individual myths are examples of parole, articulations of an underlying structure or
langue. By understanding this structure we should be able to truly understand the
meaning – ‘operational value’ (Lévi-Strauss, 1968: 209) – of particular myths.
Myths, Lévi-Strauss argues, work like language: they comprise individual
‘mythemes’, analogous to individual units of language, ‘morphemes’ and ‘phonemes’.
Like morphemes and phonemes, mythemes only take on meaning when combined in

Claude Lévi-Strauss, Will Wright and the American Western 115
particular patterns. Seen in this way, the anthropologists’ task is to discover the underlying
‘grammar’: the rules and regulations that make it possible for myths to be meaningful.
He also observes that myths are structured in terms of ‘binary oppositions’.
Dividing the world into mutually exclusive categories produces meaning: culture/
nature, man/woman, black/white, good/bad, us/them, for example. Drawing on
Saussure, he sees meaning as a result of the interplay between a process of similarity
and difference. For example, in order to say what is bad we must have some notion of
what is good. In the same way, what it means to be a man is defined against what it
means to be a woman.
Lévi-Strauss claims that all myths have a similar structure. Moreover, he also claims
– although this is by no means his primary focus – that all myths have a similar sociocultural
function within society. That is, the purpose of myth is to make the world
explicable, to magically resolve its problems and contradictions. As he contends,
‘mythical thought always progresses from the awareness of oppositions toward their
resolution. . . . The purpose of myth is to provide a logical model capable of overcoming
a contradiction’ (224, 229). Myths are stories we tell ourselves as a culture in order
to banish contradictions and make the world understandable and therefore habitable;
they attempt to put us at peace with ourselves and our existence.
In Sixguns and Society, Will Wright (1975) uses Lévi-Strauss’s structuralist methodology
to analyse the Hollywood Western. He argues that much of the narrative power
of the Western is derived from its structure of binary oppositions. However, Wright differs
from Lévi-Strauss in that his concern ‘is not to reveal a mental structure but to show
how the myths of a society, through their structure, communicate a conceptual order
to the members of that society’ (17). In short, whereas Lévi-Strauss’s primary concern
is the structure of the human mind, Wright’s focus is on the way the Western ‘presents
a symbolically simple but remarkably deep conceptualisation of American social
beliefs’ (23). He contends that the Western has evolved through three stages: ‘classic’
(including a variation he calls ‘vengeance’), ‘transition theme’ and ‘professional’.
Despite the genre’s different types, he identifies a basic set of structuring oppositions,
shown in Table 6.1. But, as he insists (taking him beyond Lévi-Strauss), in order to
fully understand the social meaning of a myth, it is necessary to analyse not only its
binary structure but its narrative structure – ‘the progression of events and the resolution
of conflicts’ (24). The ‘classic’ Western, according to Wright, is divided into sixteen
narrative ‘functions’ (see Propp, 1968):
Table 6.1 Structuring oppositions in the Western.
Inside society Outside society
Good Bad
Strong Weak
Civilization Wilderness (49)

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1. The hero enters a social group.
2. The hero is unknown to the society.
3. The hero is revealed to have an exceptional ability.
4. The society recognizes a difference between themselves and the hero; the hero is
given a special status.
5. The society does not completely accept the hero.
6. There is a conflict of interests between the villains and the society.
7. The villains are stronger than the society; the society is weak.
8. There is a strong friendship or respect between the hero and a villain.
9. The villains threaten the society.
10. The hero avoids involvement in the conflict.
11. The villains endanger a friend of the hero.
12. The hero fights the villains.
13. The hero defeats the villains.
14. The society is safe.
15. The society accepts the hero.
16. The hero loses or gives up his special status (165).
Shane (1953) is perhaps the best example of the classic Western: the story of a
stranger who rides out of the wilderness and helps a group of farmers defeat a powerful
rancher, and then rides away again, back into the wilderness. In the classic Western
the hero and society are (temporarily) aligned in opposition to the villains who remain
outside society. In the ‘transition theme’ Western, which Wright claims provides a
bridge between the classic Western, the form which dominated the 1930s, the 1940s
and most of the 1950s, and the professional Western, the form which dominated the
1960s and 1970s, the binary oppositions are reversed, and we see the hero outside
society struggling against a strong, but corrupt and corrupting civilization (Table 6.2).
Many of the narrative functions are also inverted. Instead of being outside the society,
the hero begins as a valued member of the society. But the society is revealed to be
the real ‘villain’ in opposition to the hero and those outside society and civilization. In
his support for, and eventual alignment with, those outside society and civilization, he
himself crosses from inside to outside and from civilization to wilderness. But in the
end the society is too strong for those outside it, who are ultimately powerless against
its force. The best they can do is escape to the wilderness.
Table 6.2 Structuring oppositions in the ‘professional’ Western.
Hero Society
Outside society Inside society
Good Bad
Weak Strong
Wilderness Civilization (48–9)

Claude Lévi-Strauss, Will Wright and the American Western 117
Although, according to Wright, the last ‘transition theme’ Western was Johnny Guitar
in 1954, it appears clear, using his own binary oppositions and narrative functions,
that Dances with Wolves, made in 1990, is a perfect example of the form. A cavalry
officer, decorated for bravery, rejects the East (‘civilization’) and requests a posting to
the West (‘wilderness’) – as the film publicity puts it, ‘in 1864 one man went in search
of the frontier and found himself’. He also found society among the Sioux. The film tells
the story of how ‘he is drawn into the loving and honourable folds of a Sioux tribe . . .
and ultimately, the crucial decision he must make as white settlers continue their violent
and ruthless journey into the lands of the Native Americans’ (Guild Home Video,
1991). His decision is to fight on the side of the Sioux against the ‘civilization’ he has
rejected. Finally, considered a traitor by the cavalry, he decides to leave the Sioux, so as
not to give the cavalry an excuse to butcher them. The final scene, however, shows his
departure as, unbeknown to him or the Sioux, the cavalry close in for what is to be
undoubtedly the massacre of the tribe.
If we accept Dances with Wolves as a ‘transition theme’ Western, it raises some interesting
questions about the film as myth. Wright (1975) claims that each type of
Western ‘corresponds’ to a different moment in the recent economic development of
the United States:
the classic Western plot corresponds to the individualistic conception of society
underlying a market economy. . . . [T]he vengeance plot is a variation that begins
to reflect changes in the market economy. . . . [T]he professional plot reveals a new
conception of society corresponding to the values and attitudes inherent in a
planned, corporate economy (15).
Each type in turn articulates its own mythic version of how to achieve the American
Dream:
The classical plot shows that the way to achieve such human rewards as friendship,
respect, and dignity is to separate yourself from others and use your strength as an
autonomous individual to succor them. . . . The vengeance variation . . . weakens
the compatibility of the individual and society by showing that the path to respect
and love is to separate yourself from others, struggling individually against your
many and strong enemies but striving to remember and return to the softer values
of marriage and humility. The transition theme, anticipating new social values,
argues that love and companionship are available at the cost of becoming a social
outcast to the individual who stands firmly and righteously against the intolerance
and ignorance of society. Finally, the professional plot . . . argues that companionship
and respect are to be achieved only by becoming a skilled technician, who
joins an elite group of professionals, accepts any job that is offered, and has loyalty
only to the integrity of the team, not to any competing social or community
values (186–7).
Given the critical and financial success of Dances with Wolves (winner of seven
Oscars; fifth most successful film in both the UK and the USA, grossing £10.9 million

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and $122.5 million in the first year of release in the UK and USA respectively), it may
well (if we accept Wright’s rather reductive correspondence theory) represent a
‘transition theme’ Western that marks the beginning of a reverse transition, back to a
time of less mercenary social and community values – back in fact to a time of society
and community.
Roland Barthes: Mythologies
Roland Barthes’s early work on popular culture is concerned with the processes of
signification, the mechanisms by which meanings are produced and put into circulation.
Mythologies (1973) is a collection of essays on French popular culture. In it he discusses,
among many things, wrestling, soap powders and detergents, toys, steak and
chips, tourism and popular attitudes towards science. His guiding principle is always
to interrogate ‘the falsely obvious’ (11), to make explicit what too often remains
implicit in the texts and practices of popular culture. His purpose is political; his target
is what he calls the ‘bourgeois norm’ (9). As he states in the ‘Preface’ to the 1957 edition,
‘I resented seeing Nature and History confused at every turn, and I wanted to track
down, in the decorative display of what-goes-without-saying, the ideological abuse
which, in my view, is hidden there’ (11). Mythologies is the most significant attempt to
bring the methodology of semiology to bear on popular culture. The possibility of
semiology was first posited by Saussure (1974):
Language is a system of signs that express ideas, and is therefore comparable to
a system of writing, the alphabet of deaf mutes, symbolic rites, polite formulas,
military signals, etc. ...A science that studies the life of signs within society is
conceivable ...I shall call it semiology (16).
Mythologies concludes with the important theoretical essay, ‘Myth today’. 22 In the essay
Barthes outlines a semiological model for reading popular culture. He takes Saussure’s
schema of signifier/signified = sign and adds to it a second level of signification.
As we noted earlier, the signifier ‘dog’ produces the signified ‘dog’: a four-legged
canine creature. Barthes argues that this indicates only primary signification. The sign
‘dog’ produced at the primary level of signification is available to become the signifier
‘dog’ at a second level of signification. This may then produce at the secondary level the
signified ‘dog’: an unpleasant human being. As illustrated in Table 6.3, the sign of primary
signification becomes the signifier in a process of secondary signification. In
Elements of Semiology, Barthes (1967) substitutes the more familiar terms ‘denotation’
(primary signification) and ‘connotation’ (secondary signification): ‘the first system
[denotation] becomes the plane of expression or signifier of the second system [connotation].
. . . The signifiers of connotation . . . are made up of signs (signifiers and
signifieds united) of the denoted system’ (89–91).

Table 6.3 Primary and secondary signification.
Primary signification 1. Signifier 2. Signified
Denotation 3. Sign
Secondary signification I. SIGNIFIER II. SIGNIFIED
Connotation III. SIGN
Roland Barthes: Mythologies 119
He claims that it is at the level of secondary signification or connotation that myth
is produced for consumption. By myth he means ideology understood as a body of
ideas and practices, which by actively promoting the values and interests of dominant
groups in society, defend the prevailing structures of power. To understand this aspect
of his argument, we need to understand the polysemic nature of signs, that is, that they
have the potential to signify multiple meanings. An example might make the point
clearer. I discussed in Chapter 1 how the Conservative Party presented a party political
broadcast that concluded with the word ‘socialism’ being transposed into red prison
bars. This was undoubtedly an attempt to fix the secondary signification or connotations
of the word ‘socialism’ to mean restrictive, imprisoning, against freedom. Barthes
would see this as an example of the fixing of new connotations in the production of
myth – the production of ideology. He argues that all forms of signification can be
shown to operate in this way. His most famous example of the workings of secondary
signification (see Photo 6.1) is taken from the cover of the French magazine Paris Match
(1955). He begins his analysis by establishing that the primary level of signification
consists of a signifier: patches of colour and figuration. This produces the signified:
‘a black soldier saluting the French flag’. Together they form the primary sign. The primary
sign then becomes the signifier ‘black soldier saluting the French flag’, producing,
at the level of secondary signification, the signified ‘French imperiality’. Here is his
account of his encounter with the cover of the magazine:
I am at the barber’s, and a copy of Paris Match is offered to me. On the cover, a
young Negro in a French uniform is saluting, with his eyes uplifted, probably fixed
on the fold of the tricolour. All this is the meaning of the picture. But, whether
naively or not, I see very well what it signifies to me: that France is a great Empire,
that all her sons, without colour discrimination, faithfully serve under her flag, and
that there is no better answer to the detractors of an alleged colonialism than the
zeal shown by this Negro in serving his so called oppressors. I am therefore faced
with a greater semiological system: there is a signifier, itself already formed with
a previous system (a black soldier is giving the French salute); there is a signified
(it is a purposeful mixture of Frenchness and militariness); finally there is a presence
of the signified through the signifier (2009: 265).
At the first level: black soldier saluting the French flag. At the second level: a positive
image of French imperialism. The cover illustration is therefore seen to represent Paris

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Photo 6.1 Black soldier saluting the flag.

Roland Barthes: Mythologies 121
Match’s attempt to produce a positive image of French imperialism. Following the
defeat in Vietnam (1946–54), and the then current war in Algeria (1954–62), such an
image would seem to many to be of some political urgency. And as Barthes suggests,
‘myth has ...a double function: it points out and it notifies, it makes us understand
something and it imposes it on us’ (265). What makes this a possibility are the shared
cultural codes on which both Barthes and the readership of Paris Match are able to
draw. Connotations are therefore not simply produced by the makers of the image, but
activated from an already existing cultural repertoire. In other words, the image both
draws from the cultural repertoire and at the same time adds to it. Moreover, the cultural
repertoire does not form a homogeneous block. Myth is continually confronted
by counter-myth. For example, an image containing references to pop music culture
might be seen by a young audience as an index of freedom and heterogeneity, whilst
to an older audience it might signal manipulation and homogeneity. Which codes are
mobilized will largely depend on the triple context of the location of the text, the historical
moment and the cultural formation of the reader.
In ‘The photographic message’ Barthes (1977a: 26) introduces a number of further
considerations. Context of publication is important, as I have already said. If the photograph
of the black soldier saluting the flag had appeared on the cover of the Socialist
Review, its connotative meaning(s) would have been very different. Readers would have
looked for irony. Rather than being read as a positive image of French imperialism, it
would have been seen as a sign of imperial exploitation and manipulation. In addition
to this, a socialist reading the original Paris Match would not have seen the image as a
positive image of French imperialism, but as a desperate attempt to project such an
image given the general historical context of France’s defeat in Vietnam and its pending
defeat in Algeria. But despite all this the intention behind the image is clear:
Myth has an imperative, buttonholing character . . . [it arrests] in both the physical
and the legal sense of the term: French imperialism condemns the saluting Negro
to be nothing more than an instrumental signifier, the Negro suddenly hails me
in the name of French imperiality; but at the same moment the Negro’s salute
thickens, becomes vitrified, freezes into an eternal reference meant to establish
French imperiality (2009: 265–6). 23
This is not the only way French imperialism might be given positive connotations.
Barthes suggests other mythical signifiers the press might use: ‘I can very well give to
French imperiality many other signifiers beside a Negro’s salute: a French general pins
a decoration on a one-armed Senegalese, a nun hands a cup of tea to a bed ridden Arab,
a white schoolmaster teaches attentive piccaninnies’ (266).
Barthes envisages three possible reading positions from which the image could be
read. The first would simply see the black soldier saluting the flag as an ‘example’ of
French imperiality, a ‘symbol’ for it. This is the position of those who produce such
myths. The second would see the image as an ‘alibi’ for French imperiality. This is the
position of the socialist reader discussed above. The final reading position is that of the
‘myth-consumer’ (268). He or she reads the image not as an example or as a symbol,

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nor as an alibi: the black soldier saluting the flag ‘is the very presence of French imperiality’
(267); that is, the black soldier saluting the flag is seen as naturally conjuring up
the concept of French imperiality. There is not anything to discuss: it is obvious that
one implies the presence of the other. The relationship between the black soldier saluting
the flag and French imperiality has been ‘naturalized’. As Barthes explains:
what allows the reader to consume myth innocently is that he does not see it as
a semiological system but as an inductive one. Where there is only equivalence,
he sees a kind of causal process: the signifier and the signified have, in his eyes, a
natural relationship. This confusion can be expressed otherwise: any semiological
system is a system of values; now the myth-consumer takes the signification for a
system of facts: myth is read as a factual system, whereas it is but a semiological
system (268).
There is of course a fourth reading position, that of Barthes himself – the mythologist.
This reading produces what he calls a ‘structural description’. It is a reading position
that seeks to determine the means of ideological production of the image, its
transformation of history into nature. According to Barthes, ‘Semiology has taught us
that myth has the task of giving an historical intention a natural justification, and making
contingency appear eternal. Now this process is exactly that of bourgeois ideology’
(ibid.). His argument is that ‘myth is constituted by the loss of the historical quality of
things: in it, things lose the memory that they once were made’ (ibid.). It is what he
calls ‘depoliticized speech’.
In the case of the soldier Negro . . . what is got rid of is certainly not French imperiality
(on the contrary, since what must be actualised is its presence); it is the
contingent, historical, in one word: fabricated, quality of colonialism. Myth does
not deny things, on the contrary, its function is to talk about them; simply, it purifies
them, it makes them innocent, it gives them a natural and eternal justification, it
gives them a clarity which is not that of an explanation but that of a statement of
fact. If I state the fact of French imperiality without explaining it, I am very near
to finding that it is natural and goes without saying. . . . In passing from history to
nature, myth acts economically: it abolishes the complexity of human acts ...it
organises a world which is without contradictions because it is without depth, a
world wide open and wallowing in the evident, it establishes a blissful clarity:
things appear to mean something by themselves (269). 24
Images rarely appear without the accompaniment of a linguistic text of one kind or
another. A newspaper photograph, for example, will be surrounded by a title, a caption,
a story, and the general layout of the page. It will also, as we have already noted,
be situated within the context of a particular newspaper or magazine. The context provided
by the Daily Telegraph (readership and reader expectation) is very different from
that provided by the Socialist Worker. The accompanying text controls the production
of connotations in the image.

Roland Barthes: Mythologies 123
Formerly, the image illustrated the text (made it clearer); today, the text loads the
image, burdening it with culture, a moral, an imagination. Formerly, there was
reduction from text to image; today, there is amplification from one to the other.
The connotation is now experienced only as the natural resonance of the fundamental
denotation constituted by the photographic analogy and we are thus confronted
with a typical process of naturalisation of the cultural (Barthes, 1977a: 26).
In other words, image does not illustrate text, it is the text which amplifies the connotative
potential of the image. He refers to this process as ‘relay’. The relationship can
of course work in other ways. For example, rather than ‘amplifying a set of connotations
already given in the photograph . . . the text produces (invents) an entirely new
signified which is retroactively projected into the image, so much so as to appear
denoted there’ (27). An example might be a photograph taken in 2007 (see Figure 6.1)
of a rock star looking reflective, and originally used to promote a love song: ‘My baby
done me wrong’. In late 2008 the photograph is reused to accompany a newspaper
account of the death by a drug overdose of one of the rock star’s closest friends. The
photograph is recaptioned: ‘Drugs killed my best friend’ (see Figure 6.2). The caption
would feed into the image producing (inventing) connotations of loss, despair, and a
certain thoughtfulness about the role of drugs in rock music culture. Barthes refers to
this process as ‘anchorage’. What this example of the different meanings made of the
same photograph of the rock star reveals, as noted earlier, is the polysemic nature of all
signs: that is, their potential for multiple signification. Without the addition of a linguistic
text the meaning of the image is very difficult to pin down. The linguistic message
works in two ways. It helps the reader to identify the denotative meaning of the
image: this is a rock star looking reflective. Second, it limits the potential proliferation
of the connotations of the image: the rock star is reflective because of the drug overdose
by one of his closest friends. Therefore, the rock star is contemplating the role of
drugs in rock music culture. Moreover, it tries to make the reader believe that the connotative
meaning is actually present at the level of denotation.
Figure 6.1 Rock-a-day Johnny ‘My baby done me wrong’ from the album Dogbucket
Days.

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Figure 6.2 Rock-a-day Johnny ‘Drugs killed my best friend’.
What makes the move from denotation to connotation possible is the store of social
knowledge (a cultural repertoire) upon which the reader is able to draw when he or she
reads the image. Without access to this shared code (conscious or unconscious) the
operations of connotation would not be possible. And of course such knowledge is
always both historical and cultural. That is to say, it might differ from one culture to
another, and from one historical moment to another. Cultural difference might also
be marked by differences of class, race, gender, generation or sexuality. As Barthes
points out,
reading closely depends on my culture, on my knowledge of the world, and it is
probable that a good press photograph (and they are all good, being selected)
makes ready play with the supposed knowledge of its readers, those prints being
chosen which comprise the greatest possible quantity of information of this kind
in such a way as to render the reading fully satisfying (29).
Again, as he explains, ‘the variation in readings is not, however, anarchic; it depends
on the different kinds of knowledge – practical, national, cultural, aesthetic – invested
in the image [by the reader]’ (Barthes, 1977b: 46). Here we see once again the analogy
with language. The individual image is an example of parole, and the shared code (cultural
repertoire) is an example of langue. The best way to draw together the different
elements of this model of reading is to demonstrate it. In 1991 the Department
of Education and Science (DES) produced an advertisement that they placed in the
popular film magazine Empire (see Photo 6.2). The image shows two 14-year-old
schoolgirls: Jackie intends to go to university; Susan intends to leave school at 16.
The poster’s aim is to attract men and women to the teaching profession. It operates a
double bluff. That is, we see the two girls, read the caption and decide which girl wants
to go to university, which girl wants to leave at 16. The double bluff is that the girl who
wants to leave is the one convention – those without the required cultural competence

Photo 6.2 Advertising for teachers.
Roland Barthes: Mythologies 125
to teach – would consider studious. It is a double bluff because we are not intended to
be taken in by the operation. We can congratulate ourselves on our perspicacity. We,
unlike others, have not been taken in – we have the necessary cultural competence.
Therefore we are excellent teacher material. The advertisement plays with the knowledge
necessary to be a teacher and allows us to recognize that knowledge in ourselves:
it provides us with a position from which to say: ‘Yes, I should be a teacher.’

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Post-structuralism
Post-structuralists reject the idea of an underlying structure upon which meaning can
rest secure and guaranteed. Meaning is always in process. What we call the ‘meaning’
of a text is only ever a momentary stop in a continuing flow of interpretations following
interpretations. Saussure, as we have noted, posited language as consisting of
the relationship between the signifier, signified and the sign. The theorists of poststructuralism
suggest that the situation is more complex than this: signifiers do not produce
signifieds, they produce more signifiers. Meaning as a result is a very unstable
thing. In ‘The death of the author’, the now post-structuralist Barthes (1977c) insists
that a text is ‘a multi dimensional space in which a variety of writings, none of them
original, blend and clash. The text is a tissue of quotations drawn from the innumerable
centres of culture’ (146). Only a reader can bring a temporary unity to a text.
Unlike the work that can be seen lying in apparent completion on library shelves and
in bookshops, the text ‘is experienced only in an activity of production’ (157). A text is
a work seen as inseparable from the active process of its many readings.
Jacques Derrida
Post-structuralism is virtually synonymous with the work of Jacques Derrida. The sign,
as we noted already, is for Saussure made meaningful by its location in a system of differences.
Derrida adds to this the notion that meaning is also always deferred, never
fully present, always both absent and present (see discussion of defining popular culture
in Chapter 1). Derrida (1973) has invented a new word to describe the divided
nature of the sign: différance, meaning both to defer and to differ. Saussure’s model of
difference is spatial, in which meaning is made in the relations between signs that are
locked together in a self-regulating structure. Derrida’s model of différance, however, is
both structural and temporal; meaning depends on structural difference but also on
temporal relations of before and after. For example, if we track the meaning of a word
through a dictionary we encounter a relentless deferment of meaning. If we look up
the signifier ‘letter’ in the Collins Pocket Dictionary of the English Language, we discover it
has five possible signifieds: a written or printed message, a character of the alphabet,
the strict meaning of an agreement, precisely (as in ‘to the letter’) and to write or mark
letters on a sign. If we then look up one of these, the signified ‘[a written or printed]
message’, we find that it too is a signifier producing four more signifieds: a communication
from one person or group to another, an implicit meaning, as in a work of art,
a religious or political belief that someone attempts to communicate to others, and to
understand (as in ‘to get the message’). Tracking through the dictionary in this way
confirms a relentless intertextual deferment of meaning, ‘the indefinite referral of

Jacques Derrida 127
signifier to signifier . . . which gives the signified meaning no respite . . . so that it
always signifies again’ (1978a: 25). It is only when located in a discourse and read in a
context that there is a temporary halt to the endless play of signifier to signifier. For
example, if we read or hear the words ‘nothing was delivered’, they would mean something
quite different depending on whether they were the opening words of a novel, a
line from a poem, an excuse, a jotting in a shopkeeper’s notebook, a line from a song,
an example from a phrase book, part of a monologue in a play, part of a speech in a
film, an illustration in an explanation of différance. But even context cannot fully control
meaning: the phrase ‘nothing was delivered’ will carry with it the ‘trace’ of meanings
from other contexts. If I know the line is from a song, this will resonate across the
words as I read them in a shopkeeper’s notebook.
For Derrida, the binary opposition, so important to structuralism, is never a simple
structural relation; it is always a relation of power, in which one term is in a position
of dominance with regard to the other. Moreover, the dominance of one over the other
(a matter of, say, priority or privilege) is not something which arises ‘naturally’ out of
the relationship, but something which is produced in the way the relationship is constructed.
Black and white, it could be argued, exist in a binary opposition, one always
existing as the absent other when one of the terms is defined. But it is not difficult to
see how in many powerful discourses, white is the positive term, holding priority and
privilege over black. Even leaving aside racism, there is a long history of black connoting
negatively and white connoting positively. The DES advertisement I discussed earlier
contains what Derrida (1978b) would call a ‘violent hierarchy’ (41) in its couplet:
‘good’ girl, who is interested in electromagnetism, genetics and Charles Dickens; and
‘bad’ girl, who prefers music, clothes and boys. Derrida (1976) refers to the ‘strange
economy of the supplement’ (154) to point to the unstable interplay between such
binary oppositions. In his analyses of Jean Jacques Rousseau’s ‘confessional’ and
linguistic writings, Derrida deconstructs the binary opposition between speech and
writing. Rousseau considers speech as the natural way to express thought; writing, he
regards as a ‘dangerous supplement’. However, when presence is no longer guaranteed
by speech, writing becomes a necessary means to protect presence. But for Rousseau
writing can only be a ‘supplement to speech’: ‘it is not natural. It diverts the immediate
presence of thought. . . . [It is] a sort of artificial and artful ruse to make speech present
when it is actually absent. It is a violence done to the natural destiny of the language’
(144). To supplement means both to add and to substitute. Writing is therefore both
an addition to speech and a substitute for speech. But speech itself is a supplement. It
does not exist outside culture. Speech cannot therefore play Edenic nature to writing’s
fallen culture, both always already belong to ‘the order of the supplement’ (149).
For, as Derrida insists, ‘the indefinite process of supplementarity has always already
infiltrated presence, always already inscribed there the space of repetition and the
splitting of the self [from pure self-presence]’ (163). Nature may have preceded culture,
but our sense of nature as pure presence is a product of culture. Writing is not the fall
of language, it is inscribed in its origins. Rousseau, in a sense, already knows this:
according to Derrida, he ‘declares what he wishes to say’, but he also ‘describes that which

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he does not wish to say’ (229). It is in the unravelling of this contradiction that the binary
oppositions speech/writing, nature/culture are deconstructed – the privileged term in
the opposition is shown to be dependent on the other for its meaning.
We noted in Chapter 1 how high culture has often depended on popular culture to
give it definitional solidity. Derrida’s critique of Rousseau alerts us to the way in which
one side in such couplets is always privileged over the other; one side always claims a
position of status (of pure presence) over the other. Derrida also demonstrates that
they are not pure opposites – each is motivated by the other, ultimately dependent on
the absent other for its own presence and meaning. There is no naturally ‘good’ girl
who stays on at school, which can be opposed to a naturally ‘bad’ girl who wants
to leave at 16. Simply to reverse the binary opposition would be to keep in place the
assumptions already constructed by the opposition. We must do more than ‘simply . . .
neutralise the binary oppositions. . . . One of the two terms controls the other . . .
holds the superior position. To deconstruct the opposition [we must] . . . overthrow
the hierarchy’ (1978b: 41). Instead of accepting the double bluff, a ‘deconstructive’
reading would wish to dismantle the couplet to demonstrate that it can only be held
in place by a certain ‘violence’ – a certain set of dubious assumptions about gender and
sexuality. A deconstructive reading could also be made of Dances with Wolves: instead
of the film being seen to invert the binary oppositions and narrative functions of
Wright’s model, we might perhaps consider the way the film challenges the hierarchy
implicit in the model. As Derrida (1976) points out:
[A deconstructive] reading must always aim at a certain relationship, unperceived
by the writer, between what he commands and what he does not command of the
patterns of language that he uses. This relationship is ...a signifying structure that
critical [i.e. deconstructive] reading should produce. . . . [That is, a] production
[which] attempts to make the not seen accessible to sight (158, 163).
Discourse and power: Michel Foucault
One of the primary concerns of Michel Foucault is the relationship between knowledge
and power and how this relationship operates within discourses and discursive formations.
Foucault’s concept of discourse is similar to Althusser’s idea of the ‘problematic’;
that is, both are organized and organizing bodies of knowledge, with rules and regulations
which govern particular practices (ways of thinking and acting).
Discourses work in three ways: they enable, they constrain, and they constitute. As
Foucault (1989) explains, discourses are ‘practices that systematically form the objects
of which they speak’ (49). Language, for example, is a discourse: it enables me to speak,
it constrains what I can say, it constitutes me as a speaking subject (i.e. it situates and produces
my subjectivity: I know myself in language; I think in language; I talk to myself
in language). Academic disciplines are also discourses: like languages, they enable,

Table 6.4 Film as an object of study.
Economics = commodity
Literary studies = artistic text similar to literary text
History = historical document
Art history = example of visual culture
Cultural studies = example of popular culture
Film studies = textual object of study
Media studies = particular type of media
Discourse and power: Michel Foucault 129
constrain, and constitute. Table 6.4 outlines the different ways film may be studied.
Each discipline speaks about film in a particular way and in so doing it enables and
constrains what can be said about film. But they do not just speak about film; by constructing
film as a specific object of study, they constitute film as a specific reality (‘the
real meaning of film’). The game of netball is also a discourse: to play netball (regardless
of individual talent), you must be familiar with the rules of the game; these both
enable and constrain your performance. But they also constitute you as a netball
player. In other words, you are only a netball player if you play netball. Being a netball
player is not a ‘given’ (i.e. expression of ‘nature’): it is enabled, constrained and constituted
in discourse (i.e. a product of ‘culture’). In these ways, discourses produce subject
positions we are invited to occupy (member of a language community; student of
film; netball player). Discourses, therefore, are social practices in which we engage;
they are like social ‘scripts’ we perform (consciously and unconsciously). What we
think of as ‘experience’ is always experience in or of a particular discourse. Moreover,
what we think of as our ‘selves’ is the internalization of a multiplicity of discourses.
In other words, all the things we are, are enabled, constrained and constituted in
discourses.
Discursive formations consist of the hierarchical criss-crossing of particular discourses.
The different ways to study film discussed earlier produces a discursive formation.
In The History of Sexuality, Foucault (1981) charts the development of the
discursive formation of sexuality. In doing this, he rejects what he calls ‘the repressive
hypothesis’ (10); that is, the idea of sexuality as something ‘essential’ that the
Victorians repressed. Instead he follows a different set of questions:
Why has sexuality been so widely discussed and what has been said about it? What
were the effects of power generated by what was said? What are the links between
these discourses, these effects of power, and the pleasures that were invested by
them? What knowledge (savoir) was formed as a result of this linkage? (11)
He tracks the discourse of sexuality through a series of discursive domains: medicine,
demography, psychiatry, pedagogy, social work, criminology, governmental. Rather
than silence, he encounters ‘a political, economic and technical incitement to talk

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about sex’ (22–3). He argues that the different discourses on sexuality are not about sexuality,
they actually constitute the reality of sexuality. In other words, the Victorians
did not repress sexuality, they actually invented it. This is not to say that sexuality did
not exist non-discursively, but to claim that our ‘knowledge’ of sexuality and the
‘power–knowledge’ relations of sexuality are discursive.
Discourses produce knowledge and knowledge is always a weapon of power: ‘it is in
discourse that power and knowledge are joined together’ (Foucault, 2009: 318). The
Victorian invention of sexuality did not just produce knowledge about sexuality, it
sought to produce power over sexuality; this was knowledge that could be deployed to
categorize and to organize behaviour; divide it into the ‘normal’ and the unacceptable.
In this way, then, ‘power produces knowledge . . . power and knowledge directly imply
one another . . . there is no power relation without the correlative constitution of a
field of knowledge, nor any knowledge that does not presuppose and constitute at the
same time power relations’ (1979: 27). Power, however, should not be thought of as a
negative force, something which denies, represses, negates; power is productive.
We must cease once and for all to describe the effects of power in negative terms:
it ‘excludes’, it ‘represses’, it ‘censors’, it ‘abstracts’, it ‘masks’, it ‘conceals’. In fact,
power produces; it produces reality; it produces domains of objects and rituals of
truth (194).
Power produces reality; through discourses it produces the ‘truths’ we live by: ‘Each
society has its own regime of truth, its “general politics” of truth – that is, the types
of discourse it accepts and makes function as true’ (Foucault, 2002a: 131). One of his
central aims, therefore, is to discover ‘how men [and women] govern (themselves and
others) by the production of truth (. . . the establishment of domains in which the
practice of true and false can be made at once ordered and pertinent)’ (2002b: 230).
What Foucault calls ‘regimes of truth’ do not have to be ‘true’; they have only to be
thought of as ‘true’ and acting on as if ‘true’. If ideas are believed, they establish and
legitimate particular regimes of truth. For example, before it was discovered that the
earth is round, thinking the earth was flat was to be in the regime of truth of contemporary
of science and theology; saying it was round could get you tortured or killed. In
Chapter 8 we will examine Orientalism as a powerful regime of truth.
Discourse is not just about the imposition of power. As Foucault (2009) points out,
‘Where there is power there is resistance’ (315).
Discourses are not once and for all subservient to power or raised up against it, any
more than silences are. We must make allowances for the complex and unstable
process whereby discourse can be both an instrument and an effect of power, but
also an hindrance, a stumbling block, a point of resistance and a starting point
for an opposing strategy. Discourse transmits and produces power; it reinforces it,
but also undermines it and exposes it, renders it fragile and makes it possible to
thwart it (318).

The panoptic machine
The panoptic machine 131
The panopticon is a type of prison building designed by Jeremy Bentham in 1787 (see
Figure 6.3). At the centre of the building is a tower that allows an inspector to observe
all the prisoners in the surrounding cells without the prisoners knowing whether or not
they are in fact being observed. According to Bentham, the panopticon is ‘A new mode
of obtaining power of mind over mind, in a quantity hitherto without example: and
that, to a degree equally without example’ (Bentham 1995: 31). He also believed that
the panopticon design might also be used in ‘any sort of establishment, in which persons
of any description are to be kept under inspection, [including] poor-houses,
lazarettos, houses of industry, manufactories, hospitals, work-houses, mad-houses,
and schools’ (29).
According to Foucault (1979),
the major effect of the Panopticon [is] to induce in the inmate a state of conscious
and permanent visibility that assures the automatic functioning of power. . . .
[S]urveillance is permanent in its effects, even if it is discontinuous in its action;
that the perfection of power should tend to render its actual exercise unnecessary.
Figure 6.3 The panoptic machine.

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. . . [T]he inmates . . . [are] caught up in a power situation of which they are themselves
the bearers. . . . He who is subjected to a field of visibility, and who knows
it, assumes responsibility for the constraints of power; he makes them play spontaneously
upon himself; he inscribes in himself the power relation in which he
simultaneously plays both roles; he becomes the principle of his own subjection
(201, 202–3).
In other words, inmates do not know whether or not they are actually being watched.
Therefore, they learn to behave as if they are always being watched. This is the power
of the panopticon. Panopticism is the extension of this system of surveillance to society
as a whole.
According to Foucault, Bentham’s panopticon is, therefore, profoundly symptomatic
of a historical shift, from the eighteenth century onwards, in methods of
social control. This is a movement from punishment (enforcing norms of behaviour
through spectacular displays of power: public hangings and torture, etc.) to discipline
(enforcing norms of behaviour through surveillance); a shift from ‘exceptional discipline
to one of generalised surveillance . . . the formation of what might be called in
general the disciplinary society’ (209). As he explains, the panopticon is ‘a generalizable
model [for] . . . defining power relations in terms of the everyday life. . . . [I]t is a
diagram of a mechanism of power reduced to its ideal form’ (205). The movement
from spectacle to surveillance turns ‘the whole social body into a field of perception’
(214). The intersecting gazes of power criss-cross the social body, drawing more and
more aspects of human existence into its field of vision. But it is not simply that power
catches us in its gaze, rather power works when we recognize its gaze. As Foucault
makes clear, using a theatre metaphor, ‘We are neither in the amphitheatre, nor on the
stage, but in the panoptic machine, invested by its effects of power, which we bring to
ourselves since we are part of the mechanism’ (217). In this way, then, he argues,
surveillance has become the dominant mode of the operation of power. ‘Panopticism
is a form of power . . . organised around the norm, in terms of what [is] normal or not,
correct or not, in terms of what one must do or not do’ (2002c, 58–9). It is a fundamental
aspect of what he calls ‘normalisation’ (79).
An obvious confirmation of his claim is the widespread use of surveillance technologies
in contemporary society. For example, a survey conducted in 2002 estimated
that there are around 4.2 million CCTV cameras in the United Kingdom; roughly
equivalent to one camera for every fourteen people. 25 This stands in direct relation to
Bentham’s panopticon. But the discipline of surveillance has also had a profound
influence on popular culture. I can think of at least four examples of surveillance
media. Perhaps the most obvious examples are television programmes such as Big
Brother and I’m a Celebrity, Get me Out of Here, in which surveillance is a fundamental
aspect of how these programmes work. In many ways Big Brother is panopticon television
in its most visible form. Undoubtedly, part of its appeal is that it appears to enable
us to assume the role of Bentham’s imaginary inspector, as we take pleasure in the
ability to observe without being observed, to be involved without being involved, and
to judge without being judged. However, in the light of Foucault’s point about the

production of regimes of truth, we should not assume that we are really outside the
reach of the standards and norms that Big Brother promotes and legitimates. In other
words, it might be possible to argue that the gaze of Big Brother is reciprocal; it disciplines
us as much as the contestants we watch being disciplined: we are in the cells
and not in the inspector’s tower.
The increasing number of celebrity surveillance magazines, such as Reveal, Closer,
Heat and New, work in a similar way. Celebrities are monitored and scrutinized, especially
in terms of body size and sexual and social behaviour, for our supposedly anonymous
pleasure and entertainment. But again, the norms and standards that are used to
criticize and ridicule celebrities are the same norms and standards that can be used to
discipline us. Similarly, in ‘make-over’ and ‘talk-show’ surveillance programmes such
as The Jerry Springer Show and The Jeremy Kyle Show, and What Not To Wear and Ten
Years Younger, advice is freely combined with abuse and ridicule, as subjects are encouraged,
often aggressively and to the smug self-satisfaction of the presenters, to embrace
self-discipline in order to comply with currently accepted standards of aesthetic and
behavioural normality. 26 The fact that we are on the other side of the screen does not
mean that we are safe from the demand to conform, or safely outside of the panoptic
machine.
Further reading
Further reading 133
Storey, John (ed.), Cultural Theory and Popular Culture: A Reader, 4th edition, Harlow:
Pearson Education, 2009. This is the companion volume to this book. It contains
examples of most of the work discussed here. This book and the companion Reader
are supported by an interactive website (www.pearsoned.co.uk/storey). The website
has links to other useful sites and electronic resources.
During, Simon, Foucault and Literature: Towards a Genealogy of Writing, London:
Routledge, 1992. Although the focus is on literature, this is nevertheless a very
useful introduction to Foucault.
Eagleton, Terry, Literary Theory: An Introduction, Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1983.
Contains an excellent chapter on post-structuralism.
Easthope, Antony, British Post-Structuralism, London: Routledge, 1988. An ambitious
attempt to map the field. Useful chapters on film theory, cultural studies, deconstruction
and historical studies.
Hawkes, Terence, Structuralism and Semiotics, London: Methuen, 1977. A useful introduction
to the subject.
McNay, Lois, Foucault: A Critical Introduction, Cambridge: Polity Press, 1994. An excellent
introduction to Foucault’s work.
Norris, Christopher, Derrida, London: Fontana, 1987. A clear and interesting introduction
to Derrida.

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Chapter 6 Structuralism and post-structuralism
Sarup, Madan, An Introductory Guide to Post-Structuralism and Postmodernism, 2nd edn,
Harlow: Prentice Hall, 1993. An excellent introduction to post-structuralism.
Sheridan, Alan, Michel Foucault: The Will to Truth, London: Tavistock, 1980. Still the
most readable introduction to Foucault.
Silverman, Kaja, The Subject of Semiotics, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1983. An
interesting and accessible account of structuralism, semiotics, psychoanalysis, feminism
and post-structuralism. Especially useful on Barthes.
Sturrock, John (ed.), Structuralism and Since: From Lévi-Strauss to Derrida, Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 1979. Contains good introductory essays on Lévi-Strauss,
Barthes, Foucault, and Derrida.
Twaites, Tony, Lloyd Davis and Mules Warwick, Tools for Cultural Studies: An
Introduction, Melbourne: Macmillan, 1994. Presents an informed account of the
place of semiotics in the field of cultural studies.
Weedon, Chris, Feminist Practice and Poststructuralist Theory, Oxford: Basil Blackwell,
1987. An interesting introduction to post-structuralism from a feminist perspective.
Helpful chapter on Foucault.

7 Gender and
sexuality
Feminisms
‘One of the most striking changes in the humanities in the 1980s has been the rise of
gender as a category of analysis’ (Showalter, 1990: 1). This is the opening sentence in
Elaine Showalter’s introduction to a book on gender and literary studies. There can be
no doubt that without the emergence of feminism (the second wave) in the early 1970s
this sentence could not have been written. It is feminism that has placed gender on the
academic agenda. However, the nature of the agenda has provoked a vigorous debate
within feminism itself. So much so that it is really no longer possible, if it ever was, to
talk of feminism as a monolithic body of research, writing and activity; one should
really speak of feminisms.
There are at least four different feminisms: radical, Marxist, liberal and what Sylvia
Walby (1990) calls dual-systems theory. Each responds to women’s oppression in a
different way, positing different causes and different solutions. Radical feminists
argue that women’s oppression is the result of the system of patriarchy, a system of
domination in which men as a group have power over women as a group. In Marxist
feminist analysis the ultimate source of oppression is capitalism. The domination of
women by men is seen as a consequence of capital’s domination over labour. Liberal
feminism differs from both Marxist and radical feminisms in that it does not posit
a system – patriarchy or capitalism – determining the oppression of women. Instead,
it tends to see the problem in terms of male prejudice against women, embodied in
law or expressed in the exclusion of women from particular areas of life. Dual-systems
theory represents the coming together of Marxist and radical feminist analysis in the
belief that women’s oppression is the result of a complex articulation of both patriarchy
and capitalism. There are of course other feminist perspectives. Rosemary Tong
(1992), for example, lists: liberal, Marxist, radical, psychoanalytic, socialist, existentialist
and postmodern.
Feminism, like Marxism (discussed in Chapter 4), is always more than a body of
academic texts and practices. It is also, and perhaps more fundamentally so, a political
movement concerned with women’s oppression and the ways and means to empower
women – what the African-American critic bell hooks (1989) describes as ‘finding a
voice’.

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Chapter 7 Gender and sexuality
As a metaphor for self-transformation . . . [‘finding a voice’] . . . has been especially
relevant for groups of women who have previously never had a public voice,
women who are speaking and writing for the first time, including many women of
color. Feminist focus on finding a voice may sound clichéd at times. . . . However,
for women within oppressed groups . . . coming to voice is an act of resistance.
Speaking becomes both a way to engage in active self-transformation and a rite of
passage where one moves from being object to being subject. Only as subjects can
we speak (12).
Feminism, therefore, is not just another method of reading texts. Nevertheless, it has
proved an incredibly productive way of reading. As Showalter explains,
There is an optical illusion which can be seen as either a goblet or two profiles. The
images oscillate in their tension before us, one alternately superseding the other
and reducing it to meaningless background. In the purest feminist literary theory
we are similarly presented with a radical alteration of our vision, a demand that we
see meaning in what has previously been empty space. The orthodox plot recedes,
and another plot, hitherto submerged in the anonymity of the background, stands
out in bold relief like a thumb print (quoted in Modleski, 1982: 25).
What Showalter claims for feminist literary criticism can equally be claimed for
feminist work on popular culture. Popular culture has been the object of a great deal
of feminist analysis. As Michèle Barrett (1982) points out, ‘Cultural politics are crucially
important to feminism because they involve struggles over meaning’ (37). Lana
Rakow (2009) makes much the same point, ‘Feminists approaching popular culture
proceed from a variety of theoretical positions that carry with them a deeper social
analysis and political agenda’ (195). Moreover, as Rakow observes,
Though contemporary feminists have taken a diversity of approaches to popular
culture, they have shared two major assumptions. The first is that women have a
particular relationship to popular culture that is different from men’s. ...The second
assumption is that understanding how popular culture functions both for women
and for a patriarchal culture is important if women are to gain control over their own
identities and change both social mythologies and social relations. . . . Feminists
are saying that popular culture plays a role in patriarchal society and that theoretical
analysis of this role warrants a major position in ongoing discussions (186).
Women at the cinema
In Chapter 5 we discussed Mulvey’s (1975) extremely influential account of the female
spectator. Mulvey’s analysis is impressive and telling throughout, and despite the fact

Women at the cinema 137
that it is made in an essay of fewer than thirteen pages, its influence has been enormous.
27 However, having acknowledged the essay’s power and influence, it should also
be noted that Mulvey’s ‘solution’ is somewhat less telling than her analysis of the ‘problem’.
As an alternative to popular cinema, she calls for an avant-garde cinema ‘which
is radical in both a political and an aesthetic sense and challenges the basic assumptions
of the mainstream film’ (7–8). Some feminists, including Lorraine Gamman and
Margaret Marshment (1988), have begun to doubt the ‘universal validity’ (5) of
Mulvey’s argument, questioning whether ‘the gaze is always male’, or whether it is
‘merely “dominant” ’ (ibid.) among a range of different ways of seeing, including the
female gaze. Moreover, as they insist,
It is not enough to dismiss popular culture as merely serving the complementary
systems of capitalism and patriarchy, peddling ‘false consciousness’ to the duped
masses. It can also be seen as a site where meanings are contested and where
dominant ideologies can be disturbed (1).
They advocate a cultural politics of intervention: ‘we cannot afford to dismiss the
popular by always positioning ourselves outside it’ (2). It is from popular culture
that most people in our society get their entertainment and their information. It is
here that women (and men) are offered the culture’s dominant definitions of
themselves. It would therefore seem crucial to explore the possibilities and pitfalls
of intervention in popular forms in order to find ways of making feminist meanings
a part of our pleasures (1).
Christine Gledhill (2009) makes a similar point: she advocates a feminist cultural
studies ‘which relates commonly derided popular forms to the condition of their consumption
in the lives of sociohistorical constituted audiences’ (98). ‘In this respect’,
she observes, ‘feminist analysis of the woman’s film and soap opera is beginning to
counter more negative cine-psychoanalytic . . . accounts of female spectatorship, suggesting
colonized, alienated or masochistic positions of identification’ (ibid.).
Jackie Stacey’s (1994) Star Gazing: Hollywood and Female Spectatorship presents a clear
rejection of the universalism and textual determinism of much psychoanalytic work on
female audiences. Her own analysis begins with the audience in the cinema rather than
the audience constructed by the text. Her approach takes her from the traditions of film
studies (as informed by Mulvey’s position) to the theoretical concerns of cultural studies.
Table 7.1 illustrates the differences marking out the two paradigms (24).
Stacey’s study is based on an analysis of responses she received from a group of
white British women, mostly aged over 60, and mostly working class, who had been
keen cinema-goers in the 1940s and 1950s. On the basis of letters and completed questionnaires,
she organized her analysis in terms of three discourses generated by the
responses themselves: escapism, identification and consumerism.
Escapism is one of the most frequently cited reasons given by the women for going
to the cinema. Seeking to avoid the pejorative connotations of escapism, Stacey uses

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Table 7.1 Film as object of study in film studies and cultural studies.
Film studies Cultural studies
Spectatorship positioning Audience readings
Textual analysis Ethnographic methods
Meaning as production-led Meaning as consumption-led
Passive viewer Active viewer
Unconscious Conscious
Pessimistic Optimistic
Richard Dyer’s (1999) excellent argument for the utopian sensibility of much popular
entertainment, to construct an account of the utopian possibilities of Hollywood
cinema for British women in the 1940s and 1950s. Dyer deploys a set of binary
oppositions to reveal the relationship between the social problems experienced by
audiences and the textual solutions played out in the texts of popular entertainment
(Table 7.2).
Table 7.2 Popular texts and utopian solutions.
Social problems Textual solutions
Scarcity Abundance
Exhaustion Energy
Dreariness Intensity
Manipulation Transparency
Fragmentation Community 28
For Dyer, entertainment’s utopian sensibility is a property of the text. Stacey extends
his argument to include the social context in which entertainment is experienced.
The letters and completed questionnaires by the women made it clear to her that the
pleasures of cinema expressed by them were always more than the visual and aural
pleasures of the cinema text – they included the ritual of attending a screening, the
shared experience and imagined community of the audience, the comfort and comparative
luxury of the cinema building. It was never a simple matter of enjoying the
glamour of Hollywood. As Stacey (1994) explains,
The physical space of the cinema provided a transitional space between everyday
life outside the cinema and the fantasy world of the Hollywood film about to be
shown. Its design and decor facilitated the processes of escapism enjoyed by these
female spectators. As such, cinemas were dream palaces not only in so far as they
housed the screening of Hollywood fantasies, but also because of their design and
decor which provided a feminised and glamorised space suitable for the cultural
consumption of Hollywood films (99).

Women at the cinema 139
Escapism is always a historically specific two-way event. Stacey’s women, therefore,
were not only escaping into the luxury of the cinema and the glamour of Hollywood
film, they were also escaping from the hardships and the restrictions of wartime and
post-war Britain. It is this mix of Hollywood glamour, the relative luxury of the cinema
interiors, experienced in a context of war and its aftermath of shortages and sacrifice,
which generates ‘the multi-layered meanings of escapism’ (97).
Identification is Stacey’s second category of analysis. She is aware of how it often
functions in psychoanalytic criticism to point to the way in which film texts are said to
position female spectators in the interests of patriarchy. According to this argument,
identification is the means by which women collude and become complicit in their
own oppression. However, by shifting the focus from the female spectator constructed
within the film text to the actual female audience in the cinema, she claims that
identification can be shown often to work quite differently. Her respondents continually
draw attention to the way in which stars can generate fantasies of power, control
and self-confidence, fantasies that can inform the activities of everyday life.
Her third category is consumption. Again, she rejects the rather monolithic position
which figures consumption as entangled in a relationship, always successful, of domination,
exploitation and control. She insists instead that ‘consumption is a site of
negotiated meanings, of resistance and of appropriation as well as of subjection and
exploitation’ (187). Much work in film studies, she claims, has tended to be productionled,
fixing its critical gaze on ‘the ways in which the film industry produces cinema
spectators as consumers of both the film and the [associated] products of other industries’
(188). Such analysis is never able to pose theoretically (let alone discuss in concrete
detail) how audiences actually use and make meanings from the commodities
they consume. She argues that the women’s accounts reveal a more contradictory relationship
between audiences and what they consume. For example, she highlights the
ways in which ‘American feminine ideals are clearly remembered as transgressing
restrictive British femininity and thus employed as strategies of resistance’ (198). Many
of the letters and completed questionnaires reveal the extent to which Hollywood
stars represented an alternative femininity, exciting and transgressive. In this way,
Hollywood stars, and the commodities associated with them, could be used as a means
to negotiate with, and to extend the boundaries of, what was perceived as a socially
restrictive British femininity. She is careful not to argue that these women were free to
construct through consumption entirely new feminine identities. Similarly, she does
not deny that such forms of consumption may pander to the patriarchal gaze. The key
to her position is the question of excess. The transformation of self-image brought
about by the consumption of Hollywood stars and other associated commodities may
produce identities and practices that are in excess of the needs of patriarchal culture.
She contends that,
[p]aradoxically, whilst commodity consumption for female spectators in mid to
late 1950s Britain concerns producing oneself as a desirable object, it also offers an
escape from what is perceived as the drudgery of domesticity and motherhood
which increasingly comes to define femininity at this time. Thus, consumption

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Chapter 7 Gender and sexuality
may signify an assertion of self in opposition to the self-sacrifice associated with
marriage and motherhood in 1950s Britain (238).
Stacey’s work represents something of a rebuke to the universalistic claims of much
cine-psychoanalysis. By studying the audience, ‘female spectatorship might be seen as
a process of negotiating the dominant meanings of Hollywood cinema, rather than
one of being passively positioned by it’ (12). From this perspective, Hollywood’s patriarchal
power begins to look less monolithic, less seamless, its ideological success never
guaranteed.
Reading romance
In Loving with a Vengeance, Tania Modleski (1982) claims that women writing about
‘feminine narratives’ tend to adopt one of three possible positions: ‘dismissiveness;
hostility – tending unfortunately to be aimed at the consumers of the narratives; or,
most frequently, a flippant kind of mockery’ (14). Against this, she declares: ‘It is time
to begin a feminist reading of women’s reading’ (34). She argues that what she calls
‘mass-produced fantasies for women’ (including the romance novel) ‘speak to very real
problems and tensions in women’s lives’ (14). In spite of this, she acknowledges that
the way in which these narratives resolve problems and tensions will rarely ‘please
modern feminists: far from it’ (25). However, the reader of fantasies and the feminist
reader do have something in common: dissatisfaction with women’s lives. For example,
she claims, referring to Harlequin Romances, ‘What Marx (Marx and Engels, 1957) said
of religious suffering is equally true of “romantic suffering”: it is “at the same time an
expression of real suffering and a protest against real suffering” ’ (47).
Modleski does not condemn the novels or the women who read them. Rather, she
condemns ‘the conditions which have made them necessary’, concluding that ‘the contradictions
in women’s lives are more responsible for the existence of Harlequins than
Harlequins are for the contradictions’ (57). She drifts towards, then draws back from,
the full force of Marx’s position on religion, which would leave her, despite her protests
to the contrary, having come very close to the mass culture position of popular culture
as opiate. Nevertheless, she notes how ‘students occasionally cut their women’s studies
classes to find out what is going on in their favourite soap opera. When this happens,
it is time for us to stop merely opposing soap operas and to start incorporating them,
and other mass-produced fantasies, into our study of women’ (113–14).
Rosalind Coward’s (1984) Female Desire is about women’s pleasure in popular culture.
The book explores fashion, romance, pop music, horoscopes, soap operas, food,
cooking, women’s magazines and other texts and practices which involve women in an
endless cycle of pleasure and guilt: ‘guilt – it’s our speciality’ (14 ). Coward does not
approach the material as an ‘outsider ...a stranger to [pleasure and] guilt. The pleasures
I describe are often my pleasures. ...I don’t approach these things as a distant

Reading romance 141
critic but as someone examining myself, examining my own life under a microscope’
(ibid.). Her position is in marked contrast to that, say, of the ‘culture and civilization’
tradition or the perspective of the Frankfurt School. Popular culture is not looked
down on from an Olympian height as the disappointing, but rather predictable, culture
of other people. This is a discourse about ‘our’ culture. Furthermore, she refuses to
see the practices and representations of popular culture (the discourse of ‘female
desire’) ‘as the forcible imposition of false and limiting stereotypes’ (16).
Instead I explore the desire presumed by these representations, the desire which
touches feminist and non-feminist women alike. But nor do I treat female desire
as something unchangeable, arising from the female condition. I see the representations
of female pleasure and desire as producing and sustaining feminine positions.
These positions are neither distant roles imposed on us from outside which
it would be easy to kick off, nor are they the essential attributes of femininity. Feminine
positions are produced as responses to the pleasures offered to us; our subjectivity
and identity are formed in the definitions of desire which encircle us. These
are the experiences which make change such a difficult and daunting task, for
female desire is constantly lured by discourses which sustain male privilege (ibid.).
Coward’s interest in romantic fiction is in part inspired by the intriguing fact that
‘over the past decade [the 1970s], the rise of feminism has been paralleled almost
exactly by a mushroom growth in the popularity of romantic fiction’. 29 She believes
two things about romantic novels. First, that ‘they must still satisfy some very definite
needs’; and second, that they offer evidence of, and contribute to, ‘a very powerful and
common fantasy’ (190). She claims that the fantasies played out in romantic fiction are
‘pre-adolescent, very nearly pre-conscious’ (191–2). She believes them to be ‘regressive’
in two key respects. On the one hand, they adore the power of the male in ways reminiscent
of the very early child–father relationship, whilst on the other, they are regressive
because of the attitude taken to female sexual desire – passive and without guilt,
as the responsibility for sexual desire is projected on to the male. In other words, sexual
desire is something men have and to which women merely respond. In short,
romantic fiction replays the girl’s experience of the Oedipal drama; only this time without
its conclusion in female powerlessness; this time she does marry the father and
replace the mother. Therefore there is a trajectory from subordination to a position of
power (in the symbolic position of the mother). But, as Coward points out,
Romantic fiction is surely popular because it . . . restores the childhood world of
sexual relations and suppresses criticisms of the inadequacy of men, the suffocation
of the family, or the damage inflicted by patriarchal power. Yet it simultaneously
manages to avoid the guilt and fear which might come from that childhood
world. Sexuality is defined firmly as the father’s responsibility, and fear of suffocation
is overcome because women achieve a sort of power in romantic fiction.
Romantic fiction promises a secure world, promises that there will be safety with
dependence, that there will be power with subordination (196).

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Janice Radway (1987) begins her study of romance reading with the observation
that the increased popularity of the genre can be in part explained by the ‘important
changes in book production, distribution, advertising and marketing techniques’ (13).
Taking issue with earlier accounts, Radway points out that the increasing success of
romances may have as much to do with the sophisticated selling techniques of publishers,
making romances more visible, more available, as with any simple notion of
women’s increased need for romantic fantasy.
Radway’s study is based on research she carried out in ‘Smithton’, involving a group
of forty-two women romance readers (mostly married with children). The women are
all regular customers at the bookshop where ‘Dorothy Evans’ works. It was in fact Dot’s
reputation that attracted Radway to Smithton. Out of her own enthusiasm for the
genre, Dot publishes a newsletter (‘Dorothy’s diary of romance reading’) in which
romances are graded in terms of their romantic worth. The newsletter, and Dot’s general
advice to customers, has in effect created what amounts to a small but significant
symbolic community of romance readers. It is this symbolic community that is the
focus of Radway’s research. Research material was compiled through individual questionnaires,
open-ended group discussions, face-to-face interviews, some informal discussions,
and by observing the interactions between Dot and her regular customers at
the bookshop. Radway supplemented this by reading the titles brought to her attention
by the Smithton women.
The influence of Dot’s newsletter on the purchasing patterns of readers alerted
Radway to the inadequacy of a methodology that attempts to draw conclusions about
the genre from a sample of current titles. She discovered that in order to understand
the cultural significance of romance reading, it is necessary to pay attention to popular
discrimination, to the process of selection and rejection which finds some titles satisfying
and others not. She also encountered the actual extent of romance reading. The
majority of the women she interviewed read every day, spending eleven to fifteen hours
a week on romance reading. At least a quarter of the women informed her that, unless
prevented by domestic and family demands, they preferred to read a romance from
start to finish in one sitting. Consumption varies from one to fifteen books a week.
Four informants actually claimed to read between fifteen and twenty-five romances a
week. 30
According to the Smithton women, the ideal romance is one in which an intelligent
and independent woman with a good sense of humour is overwhelmed, after much
suspicion and distrust, and some cruelty and violence, by the love of a man, who in
the course of their relationship is transformed from an emotional pre-literate to
someone who can care for her and nurture her in ways that are traditionally expected
only from a woman to a man. As Radway explains: ‘The romantic fantasy is . . . not
a fantasy about discovering a uniquely interesting life partner, but a ritual wish to
be cared for, loved, and validated in a particular way’ (83). It is a fantasy about reciprocation;
the wish to believe that men can bestow on women the care and attention
women are expected regularly to bestow on men. But the romantic fantasy offers
more than this; it recalls a time when the reader was in fact the recipient of an intense
‘maternal’ care.

Reading romance 143
Drawing on the work of Nancy Chodorow (1978), Radway claims that romantic
fantasy is a form of regression in which the reader is imaginatively and emotionally
transported to a time ‘when she was the center of a profoundly nurturant individual’s
attention’ (Radway, 1987: 84). However, unlike regression centred on the father as
suggested by Coward, this is regression focused on the figure of the mother. Romance
reading is therefore a means by which women can vicariously – through the hero–
heroine relationship – experience the emotional succour which they themselves are
expected to provide to others without adequate reciprocation for themselves in their
everyday existence.
She also takes from Chodorow the notion of the female self as a self-in-relation-to
others, and the male self as a self autonomous and independent. Chodorow argues that
this results from the different relations that girls and boys have with their mothers.
Radway sees a correlation between the psychological events described by Chodorow
and the narrative pattern of the ideal romance: in the journey from identity in crisis to
identity restored, ‘the heroine successfully establishes by the end of the ideal narrative
. . . the now familiar female self, the self-in-relation’ (139). Radway also takes from
Chodorow the belief that women emerge from the Oedipus complex with a ‘triangular
psychic structure intact’; which means that ‘not only do they need to connect themselves
with a member of the opposite sex, but they also continue to require an intense
emotional bond with someone who is reciprocally nurturant and protective in a maternal
way’ (140). In order to experience this regression to maternal emotional fulfilment,
she has three options: lesbianism, a relationship with a man, or to seek fulfilment by
other means. The homophobic nature of our culture limits the first; the nature of masculinity
limits the second; romance reading may be an example of the third. Radway
suggests that
the fantasy that generates the romance originates in the oedipal desire to love and
be loved by an individual of the opposite sex and in the continuing pre-oedipal
wish that is part of a woman’s inner-object configuration, the wish to regain the
love of the mother and all that it implies – erotic pleasure, symbiotic completion,
and identity confirmation (146).
The resolution to the ideal romance provides perfect triangular satisfaction: ‘fatherly
protection, motherly care, and passionate adult love’ (149).
The failed romance is unable to provide these satisfactions because on the one hand,
it is too violent, and on the other, it concludes sadly, or with an unconvincing happy
ending. This highlights in an unpleasurable way the two structuring anxieties of all
romances. The first is the fear of male violence. In the ideal romance, this is contained
by revealing it to be not the fearful thing it appears to be, either an illusion or benign.
The second anxiety is the ‘fear of an awakened female sexuality and its impact on men’
(169). In the failed romance, female sexuality is not confined to a permanent and
loving relationship; nor is male violence convincingly brought under control. Together
they find form and expression in the violent punishment inflicted on women who
are seen as sexually promiscuous. In short, the failed romance is unable to produce a

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reading experience in which emotional fulfilment is satisfied through the vicarious
sharing of the heroine’s journey from a crisis of identity to an identity restored in the
arms of a nurturing male. Whether a romance is good or bad is ultimately determined
by the kind of relationship the reader can establish with the heroine.
If the events of the heroine’s story provoke too intense feelings such as anger at
men, fear of rape and violence, worry about female sexuality, or worry about the
need to live with an unexciting man, that romance will be discarded as a failure or
judged to be very poor. If, on the other hand, those events call forth feelings of
excitement, satisfaction, contentment, self-confidence, pride, and power, it matters
less what events are used or how they are marshalled. In the end, what counts most
is the reader’s sense that for a short time she has become other and been elsewhere.
She must close that book reassured that men and marriage really do mean good
things for women. She must also turn back to her daily round of duties, emotionally
reconstituted and replenished, feeling confident of her worth and convinced
of her ability and power to deal with the problems she knows she must confront
(184).
In this way, the Smithton women ‘partially reclaim the patriarchal form of the
romance for their own use’ (ibid.). The principal ‘psychological benefits’ of reading
romance novels derive from ‘the ritualistic repetition of a single, immutable cultural
myth’ (198, 199). The fact that 60 per cent of the Smithton readers find it occasionally
necessary to read the ending first, to ensure that the experience of the novel will not
counteract the satisfactions of the underlying myth, suggests quite strongly that it is the
underlying myth of the nurturing male that is ultimately most important in the
Smithton women’s experience of romance reading.
Following a series of comments from the Smithton women, Radway was forced to
the conclusion that if she really wished to understand their view of romance reading
she must relinquish her preoccupation with the text, and consider also the very act of
romance reading itself. In conversations it became clear that when the women used the
term ‘escape’ to describe the pleasures of romance reading, the term was operating in a
double but related sense. As we have seen, it can be used to describe the process of
identification between the reader and the heroine/hero relationship. But it became
clear that the term was also used ‘literally to describe the act of denying the present,
which they believe they accomplish each time they begin to read a book and are drawn
into its story’ (90). Dot revealed to Radway that men often found the very act of
women reading threatening. It is seen as time reclaimed from the demands of family
and domestic duties. Many of the Smithton women describe romance reading as ‘a special
gift’ they give themselves. To explain this, Radway cites Chodorow’s view of the
patriarchal family as one in which, ‘There is a fundamental asymmetry in daily reproduction
. . . men are socially and psychologically reproduced by women, but women
are reproduced (or not) largely by themselves’ (91, 94). Romance reading is therefore
a small but not insignificant contribution to the emotional reproduction of the
Smithton women: ‘a temporary but literal denial of the demands women recognise as

Reading romance 145
an integral part of their roles as nurturing wives and mothers’ (97). And, as Radway
suggests, ‘Although this experience is vicarious, the pleasure it induces is nonetheless
real’ (100).
I think it is logical to conclude that romance reading is valued by the Smithton
women because the experience itself is different from ordinary existence. Not only
is it a relaxing release from the tension produced by daily problems and responsibilities,
but it creates a time or a space within which a woman can be entirely on
her own, preoccupied with her personal needs, desires, and pleasure. It is also a means
of transportation or escape to the exotic or, again, to that which is different (61).
The conclusion Reading the Romance finally comes to is that it is at present very
difficult to draw absolute conclusions about the cultural significance of romance reading.
To focus on the act of reading or to focus on the narrative fantasy of the texts
produces different, contradictory answers. The first suggests that ‘romance reading is
oppositional because it allows the women to refuse momentarily their self-abnegating
social role’ (210). To focus on the second suggests that ‘the romance’s narrative structure
embodies a simple recapitulation and recommendation of patriarchy and its
constituent social practices and ideologies’ (ibid.). It is this difference, ‘between the
meaning of the act and the meaning of the text as read’ (ibid.), that must be brought
into tight focus if we are to understand the full cultural significance of romance reading.
On one thing Radway is clear: women do not read romances out of a sense of contentment
with patriarchy. Romance reading contains an element of utopian protest, a
longing for a better world. But against this, the narrative structure of the romance
appears to suggest that male violence and male indifference are really expressions of
love waiting to be decoded by the right woman. This suggests that patriarchy is only a
problem until women learn how to read it properly. It is these complexities and contradictions
that Radway refuses to ignore or pretend to resolve. Her only certainty is
that it is too soon to know if romance reading can be cited simply as an ideological
agent of the patriarchal social order.
I feel compelled to point out . . . that neither this study nor any other to date provides
enough evidence to corroborate this argument fully. We simply do not know
what practical effects the repetitive reading of romances has on the way women
behave after they have closed their books and returned to their normal, ordinary
round of daily activities (217).
Therefore we must continue to acknowledge the activity of readers – their selections,
purchases, interpretations, appropriations, uses, etc. – as an essential part of the cultural
processes and complex practices of making meaning in the lived cultures of everyday
life. By paying attention in this way we increase the possibility of ‘articulating the
differences between the repressive imposition of ideology and oppositional practices
that, though limited in their scope and effect, at least dispute or contest the control of
ideological forms’ (221–2). The ideological power of romances may be great, but where

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there is power there is always resistance. The resistance may be confined to selective
acts of consumption – dissatisfactions momentarily satisfied by the articulation of
limited protest and utopian longing – but as feminists
[w]e should seek it out not only to understand its origins and its utopian longing
but also to learn how best to encourage it and bring it to fruition. If we do not, we
have already conceded the fight and, in the case of the romance at least, admitted
the impossibility of creating a world where the vicarious pleasure supplied by its
reading would be unnecessary (222).
Charlotte Brunsdon (1991) calls Reading the Romance ‘the most extensive scholarly
investigation of the act of reading’, crediting Radway with having installed in the classroom
‘the figure of the ordinary woman’ (372). In a generally sympathetic review of
the British edition of Reading the Romance, Ien Ang (2009) makes a number of criticisms
of Radway’s approach. She is unhappy with the way in which Radway makes a
clear distinction between feminism and romance reading: ‘Radway, the researcher, is a
feminist and not a romance fan, the Smithton women, the researched, are romance
readers and not feminists’ (584). Ang sees this as producing a feminist politics of ‘them’
and ‘us’ in which non-feminist women play the role of an alien ‘them’ to be recruited
to the cause. In her view, feminists should not set themselves up as guardians of the
true path. According to Ang, this is what Radway does in her insistence that ‘ “real”
social change can only be brought about . . . if romance readers would stop reading
romances and become feminist activists instead’ (585). As we shall see shortly, in my
discussion of Watching Dallas, Ang does not believe that one (romance reading) excludes
the other (feminism). Radway’s ‘vanguardist . . . feminist politics’ leads only to ‘a form
of political moralism, propelled by a desire to make “them” more like “us” ’. Ang
believes that what is missing from Radway’s analysis is a discussion of pleasure as pleasure.
Pleasure is discussed, but always in terms of its unreality – its vicariousness, its
function as compensation, and its falseness. Ang’s complaint is that such an approach
focuses too much on the effects, rather than the mechanisms of pleasure. Ultimately,
for Radway, it always becomes a question of ‘the ideological function of pleasure’.
Against this, Ang argues for seeing pleasure as something which can ‘empower’ women
and not as something which always works ‘against their own “real” interests’ (585–6).
Janice Radway (1994) has reviewed this aspect of her work and concluded,
Although I tried very hard not to dismiss the activities of the Smithton women and
made an effort to understand the act of romance reading as a positive response to
the conditions of everyday life, my account unwittingly repeated the sexist assumption
that has warranted a large portion of the commentary on romance. It was still
motivated, that is, by the assumption that someone ought to worry responsibly
about the effect of fantasy on women readers . . . [and therefore repeated] the
familiar pattern whereby the commentator distances herself as knowing analyst
from those who, engrossed and entranced by fantasy, cannot know. . . . Despite the
fact that I wanted to claim the romance for feminism, this familiar opposition

etween blind fantasy and perspicacious knowing continued to operate within
my account. Thus I would now link it [Reading the Romance], along with Tania
Modleski’s Loving with a Vengeance, with the first early efforts to understand the
changing genre, a stage in the debate that was characterised most fundamentally,
I believe, by suspicion about fantasy, daydream, and play (19).
She cites with approval Alison Light’s (1984) point that feminist ‘cultural politics must
not become “a book-burning legislature” ’, nor should feminists fall into the traps of
moralism or dictatorship when discussing romances. ‘ “It is conceivable . . . that
Barbara Cartland could turn you into a feminist. Reading is never simply a linear con
job but a . . . process which therefore remains dynamic and open to change” ’ (quoted
in Radway, 1994: 220). 31
Watching Dallas
Watching Dallas 147
Ien Ang’s Watching Dallas was originally published in the Netherlands in 1982. The
version under discussion here is the revised edition translated into English in 1985.
The context for Ang’s study is the emergence of the American ‘prime time soap’ Dallas
as an international success (watched in over ninety countries) in the early 1980s. In the
Netherlands, Dallas was regularly watched by 52 per cent of the population. With its
spectacular success, Dallas soon gathered around itself a whole discourse of activity –
from extensive coverage in the popular press to souvenir hats reading ‘I Hate JR’. It also
attracted critics like Jack Lang, the French Minister of Culture, who viewed it as the
latest example of ‘American cultural imperialism’ (quoted in Ang, 1985: 2). Whether
cause of pleasure or threat to ‘national identity’, Dallas made an enormous impact
worldwide in the early 1980s. It is in this context that Ang placed the following advertisement
in Viva, a Dutch women’s magazine: ‘I like watching the TV serial Dallas, but
often get odd reactions to it. Would anyone like to write and tell me why you like
watching it too, or dislike it? I should like to assimilate these reactions in my university
thesis. Please write to . . .’ (Ang, 1985: 10).
Following the advertisement she received forty-two letters (thirty-nine from women
or girls), from both lovers and haters of Dallas. These form the empirical basis of her
study of the pleasure(s) of watching Dallas for its predominantly female audience. She
is not concerned with pleasure understood as the satisfaction of an already pre-existent
need, but ‘the mechanisms by which pleasure is aroused’ (9). Instead of the question
‘What are the effects of pleasure?’ she poses the question ‘What is the mechanism of
pleasure; how is it produced and how does it work?’
Ang writes as ‘an intellectual and a feminist’, but also as someone who has ‘always
particularly liked watching soap operas like Dallas’ (12). Again, we are a long way from
the view from above which has so often characterized the relations between cultural
theory and popular culture.

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The admission of the reality of this pleasure [my own] . . . formed the starting
point for this study. I wanted in the first place to understand this pleasure, without
having to pass judgment on whether Dallas is good or bad, from a political, social
or aesthetic view. Quite the contrary; in my opinion it is important to emphasise
how difficult it is to make such judgments – and hence to try to formulate the
terms for a progressive cultural politics – when pleasure is at stake (ibid.).
For Ang’s letter-writers the pleasures or displeasures of Dallas are inextricably linked
with questions of ‘realism’. The extent to which a letter-writer finds the programme
‘good’ or ‘bad’ is determined by whether they find it ‘realistic’ (good) or ‘unrealistic’
(bad). Critical of both ‘empiricist realism’ (a text is considered realistic to the extent to
which it adequately reflects that which exists outside itself) (34–8) and ‘classic realism’
(the claim that realism is an illusion created by the extent to which a text can successfully
conceal its constructedness) (38–41), she contends that Dallas is best understood
as an example of what she calls ‘emotional realism’ (41–7). She connects this to the
way in which Dallas can be read on two levels: the level of denotation and the level of
connotation (see Chapter 6). The level of denotation refers to the literal content of the
programme, general storyline, character interactions, etc. The level of connotation(s)
refers to the associations, implications, which resonate from the storyline and character
interactions, etc.
It is striking; the same things, people, relations and situations which are regarded
at the denotative level as unrealistic, and unreal, are at the connotative level apparently
not seen at all as unreal, but in fact as ‘recognisable’. Clearly, in the connotative
reading process the denotative level of the text is put in brackets (42).
Viewing Dallas, like watching any other programme, is a selective process, reading
across the text from denotation to connotation, weaving our sense of self in and out of
the narrative. As one letter-writer says: ‘Do you know why I like watching it? I think it’s
because those problems and intrigues, the big and little pleasures and troubles occur
in our own lives too. . . . In real life I know a horror like JR, but he’s just an ordinary
builder’ (43). It is this ability to make our own lives connect with the lives of a family
of Texan millionaires that gives the programme its emotional realism. We may not be
rich, but we may have other fundamental things in common: relationships and broken
relationships, happiness and sadness, illness and health. Those who find it realistic
shift the focus of attention from the particularity of the narrative (‘denotation’) to the
generality of its themes (‘connotation’).
Ang uses the term a ‘tragic structure of feeling’ (46) to describe the way in which
Dallas plays with the emotions in an endless musical chairs of happiness and misery.
As one letter-writer told her: ‘Sometimes I really enjoy having a good cry with them.
And why not? In this way my other bottled-up emotions find an outlet’ (49). Viewers
who ‘escape’ in this way are not so much engaging in ‘a denial of reality as playing with
it . . . [in a] game that enables one to place the limits of the fictional and the real under

Watching Dallas 149
discussion, to make them fluid. And in that game an imaginary participation in the
fictional world is experienced as pleasurable’ (ibid.).
Whatever else is involved, part of the pleasure of Dallas is quite clearly connected to
the amount of fluidity viewers are able or willing to establish between its fictional
world and the world of their day-to-day existence. In order to activate Dallas’s tragic
structure of feeling the viewer must have the necessary cultural capital to occupy a
‘reading formation’ 32 informed by what she calls, following Peter Brooks (1976), the
‘melodramatic imagination’. The melodramatic imagination is the articulation of a way
of seeing that finds in ordinary day-to-day existence, with its pain and triumphs, its
victories and defeats, a world that is as profoundly meaningful and significant as the
world of classical tragedy. In a world cut loose from the certainties of religion, the
melodramatic imagination offers a means of organizing reality into meaningful contrasts
and conflicts. As a narrative form committed to melodrama’s emphatic contrasts,
conflicts and emotional excess, Dallas is well placed to give sustenance to, and make
manifest, the melodramatic imagination. For those who see the world in this way (Ang
claims that it demands a cultural competence most often shared by women), ‘the pleasure
of Dallas . . . is not a compensation for the presumed drabness of daily life, nor
a flight from it, but a dimension of it’ (Ang, 1985: 83). The melodramatic imagination
activates Dallas’s tragic structure of feeling, which in turn produces the pleasure of
emotional realism. However, because the melodramatic imagination is an effect of a
specific reading formation, it follows that not all viewers of Dallas will activate the text
in this way.
A key concept in Ang’s analysis is what she calls ‘the ideology of mass culture’ (15).
The ideology articulates (in the Gramscian sense discussed in Chapter 4) the view that
popular culture is the product of capitalist commodity production and is therefore subject
to the laws of the capitalist market economy; the result of which is the seemingly
endless circulation of degraded commodities, whose only real significance is that they
make a profit for their producers. She quite rightly sees this as a distorted and one-sided
version of Marx’s analysis of capitalist commodity production, in that it allows
‘exchange value’ to completely mask ‘use value’ (see Chapter 10). Against this, she
insists, as would Marx, that it is not possible to read off how a product might be consumed
from the means by which it was produced. The ideology of mass culture, like
other ideological discourses, seeks to interpellate individuals into specific subject
positions (see discussion of Althusser in Chapter 4). The letters suggest four positions
from which to consume Dallas: (i) those who hate the programme; (ii) ironical viewers;
(iii) fans, and (iv) populists.
Those letter-writers who claim to hate Dallas draw most clearly on the ideology.
They use it in two ways. First, the programme is identified negatively as an example of
mass culture, second, as a means to account for and support their dislike of the programme.
As Ang puts it, ‘their reasoning boils down to this: “Dallas is obviously bad
because it’s mass culture, and that’s why I dislike it” ’ (95-6). In this way, the ideology
both comforts and reassures: ‘it makes a search for more detailed and personal explanations
superfluous, because it provides a finished explanatory model that convinces,
sounds logical and radiates legitimacy’ (96). This is not to say that it is wrong to

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dislike Dallas, only that professions of dislike are often made without thinking, in fact
with a confidence born of uncritical thought.
Viewers who occupy the second position demonstrate how it is possible to like
Dallas and still subscribe to the ideology of mass culture. The contradiction is resolved
by ‘mockery and irony’ (97). Dallas is subjected to an ironizing and mocking commentary
in which it ‘is transformed from a seriously intended melodrama to the reverse:
a comedy to be laughed at. Ironizing viewers therefore do not take the text as it presents
itself, but invert its preferred meaning through ironic commentary’ (98). From this
position the pleasure of Dallas derives from the fact that it is bad – pleasure and bad
mass culture are reconciled in an instant. As one of the letter-writers puts it: ‘Of course
Dallas is mass culture and therefore bad, but precisely because I am so well aware of
that I can really enjoy watching it and poke fun at it’ (100). For both the ironizing
viewer and the hater of Dallas, the ideology of mass culture operates as a bedrock of
common sense, making judgements obvious and self-evident. Although both operate
within the normative standards of the ideology, the difference between them is marked
by the question of pleasure. On the one hand, the ironizers can have pleasure without
guilt, in the sure and declared knowledge that they know mass culture is bad. On the
other hand, the haters, although secure in the same knowledge, can, nevertheless, suffer
‘a conflict of feelings if, in spite of this, they cannot escape its seduction’ (101).
Thirdly, there are the fans, those who love Dallas. For the viewers who occupy the
previous two positions, to actually like Dallas without resort to irony is to be identified
as someone duped by mass culture. As one letter-writer puts it: ‘The aim is simply to
rake in money, lots of money. And people try to do that by means of all these things –
sex, beautiful people, wealth. And you always have people who fall for it’ (103). The
claim is presented with all the confidence of having the full weight of the ideology’s
discursive support. Ang analyses the different strategies that those who love Dallas must
use to deal consciously and unconsciously with such condescension. The first strategy
is to ‘internalize’ the ideology; to acknowledge the ‘dangers’ of Dallas, but to declare
one’s ability to deal with them in order to derive pleasure from the programme. It is a
little like the heroin user in the early 1990s British drugs awareness campaign, who,
against the warnings of impending addiction, declares: ‘I can handle it.’ A second strategy
used by fans is to confront the ideology of mass culture as one letter-writer does:
‘Many people find it worthless or without substance. But I think it does have substance’
(105). But, as Ang points out, the writer remains firmly within the discursive constraints
of the ideology as she attempts to relocate Dallas in a different relationship to
the binary oppositions – with substance/without substance, good/bad. ‘This letterwriter
“negotiates” as it were within the discursive space created by the ideology of
mass culture, she does not situate herself outside it and does not speak from an opposing
ideological position’ (106). A third strategy of defence deployed by fans against the
normative standards of the ideology of mass culture is to use irony. These fans are different
from Ang’s second category of viewer, the ironist, in that the strategy involves the
use of ‘surface irony’ to justify what is in all other respects a form of non-ironic pleasure.
Irony is used to condemn the characters as ‘horrible’ people, whilst at the same
time demonstrating an intimate knowledge of the programme and a great involvement

Watching Dallas 151
in its narrative development and character interactions. The letter-writer who uses this
strategy is caught between the dismissive power of the ideology and the pleasure she
obviously derives from watching Dallas. Her letter seems to suggest that she adheres to
the former when viewing with friends, and to the latter when viewing alone (and perhaps
secretly when viewing with friends). As Ang explains: ‘irony is here a defence
mechanism with which this letter-writer tries to fulfil the social norms set by the
ideology of mass culture, while secretly she “really” likes Dallas’ (109).
As Ang shows, the fans of Dallas find it necessary to locate their pleasure in relation
to the ideology of mass culture; they ‘internalize’ the ideology; they ‘negotiate’ with the
ideology; they use ‘surface irony’ to defend their pleasure against the withering dismissal
of the ideology. What all these strategies of defence reveal is that ‘there is no
clear-cut ideological alternative which can be employed against the ideology of mass
culture – at least no alternative that offsets the latter in power of conviction and coherence’
(109–10). The struggle therefore, as so far described, between those who like
Dallas and those who dislike it, is an unequal struggle between those who argue from
within the discursive strength and security of the ideology of mass culture, and those
who resist from within (for them) its inhospitable confines. ‘In short, these fans do not
seem to be able to take up an effective ideological position – an identity – from which
they can say in a positive way and independently of the ideology of mass culture:
“I like Dallas because . . .”.’ (Ibid.).
The final viewing position revealed in the letters, one that might help these fans, is
a position informed by the ideology of populism. At the core of this ideology is the
belief that one person’s taste is of equal value to another person’s taste. As one letterwriter
puts it: ‘I find the people who react oddly rather ludicrous – they can’t do anything
about someone’s taste. And anyway they might find things pleasant that you just
can’t stand seeing or listening to’ (113). The ideology of populism insists that as taste
is an autonomous category, continually open to individual inflection, it is absolutely
meaningless to pass aesthetic judgements on other people’s preferences. Given that this
would seem to be an ideal discourse from which to defend one’s pleasure in Dallas,
why do so few of the letter-writers adopt it? Ang’s answer is to point to the ideology’s
extremely limited critical vocabulary. After one has repeated ‘there’s no accounting for
taste’ a few times, the argument begins to appear somewhat bankrupt. Compared to
this, the ideology of mass culture has an extensive and elaborate range of arguments
and theories. Little wonder, then, that when invited to explain why they like or dislike
Dallas, the letter-writers find it difficult to escape the normative discourse of the ideology
of mass culture.
However, according to Ang, there are ways to escape: it is the very ‘theoretical’ nature
of the discourse which restricts its influence ‘to people’s opinions and rational consciousness,
to the discourse people use when talking about culture. These opinions and
rationalizations need not, however, necessarily prescribe people’s cultural practices’
(115). This would in part explain the contradictions experienced by some letterwriters:
confronted by both ‘the intellectual dominance of the ideology of mass culture
and the “spontaneous”, practical attraction of the populist ideology’ (ibid.). The
difficulty with adopting the populist ideology for a radical politics of popular culture

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is that it has already been appropriated by the culture industries for its own purposes
of profit maximization. However, drawing on the work of Bourdieu, Ang argues that
populism is related to the ‘popular aesthetic’, in which the moral categories of middleclass
taste are replaced by an emphasis on contingency, on pluralism, and above all, on
pleasure (see Chapter 10). Pleasure, for Ang, is the key term in a transformed feminist
cultural politics. Feminism must break with ‘the paternalism of the ideology of mass
culture . . . [in which w]omen are . . . seen as the passive victims of the deceptive messages
of soap operas . . . [their] pleasure . . . totally disregarded’ (118–19). Even when
pleasure is considered, it is there only to be condemned as an obstruction to the feminist
goal of women’s liberation. The question Ang poses is: Can pleasure through
identification with the women of ‘women’s weepies’ or the emotionally masochistic
women of soap operas, ‘have a meaning for women which is relatively independent of
their political attitudes’? (133). Her answer is yes: fantasy and fiction do not
function in place of, but beside, other dimensions of life (social practice, moral
or political consciousness). It . . . is a source of pleasure because it puts ‘reality’ in
parenthesis, because it constructs imaginary solutions for real contradictions
which in their fictional simplicity and their simple fictionality step outside the
tedious complexity of the existing social relations of dominance and subordination
(135).
Of course this does not mean that representations of women do not matter. They can
still be condemned for being reactionary in an ongoing cultural politics. But to experience
pleasure from them is a completely different issue: ‘it need not imply that we are
also bound to take up these positions and solutions in our relations to our loved ones
and friends, our work, our political ideals, and so on’ (ibid.).
Fiction and fantasy, then, function by making life in the present pleasurable, or
at least livable, but this does not by any means exclude radical political activity
or consciousness. It does not follow that feminists must not persevere in trying
to produce new fantasies and fight for a place for them. . . . It does, however,
mean that, where cultural consumption is concerned, no fixed standard exists for
gauging the ‘progressiveness’ of a fantasy. The personal may be political, but the
personal and the political do not always go hand in hand (135–6).
In an unnecessarily hostile review of Watching Dallas, Dana Polan (1988) accuses
Ang of simplifying questions of pleasure by not bringing into play psychoanalysis. He
also claims that Ang’s attack on the ideology of mass culture simply reverses the valuations
implicit and explicit in the high culture / popular culture divide. Instead of the
consumer of high culture imagining ‘high taste as a kind of free expression of a full subjectivity
always in danger of being debased by vulgar habits’, Ang is accused of presenting
‘the fan of mass culture as a free individual in danger of having his/her open
access to immediate pleasure corrupted by artificial and snobbish values imposed from
on high’ (198). Polan claims that Ang is attacking ‘an antiquarian and anachronistic

approach to mass culture’, and that she is out of touch with the new postmodern
sensibility, still clinging instead ‘to mythic notions of culture as tragedy, culture as
meaning’ (202). The idea that the ideology of mass culture is antiquated and anachronistic
might be true in the fantasy realms of American academic psychoanalytic cultural
criticism, but it is still very much alive in the conscious/unconscious world of everyday
culture.
Reading women’s magazines
Reading women’s magazines 153
In the Preface to Inside Women’s Magazines, Janice Winship (1987) explains how she
has been doing research on women’s magazines since 1969. She also tells us that it was
also around the same time that she began to regard herself as a feminist. Integrating the
two, she admits, has sometimes proved difficult; often it was hinted that she should
research ‘something more important politically’. But she insists that the two must be
integrated: ‘to simply dismiss women’s magazines was also to dismiss the lives of millions
of women who read and enjoyed them each week. More than that, I still enjoyed
them, found them useful and escaped with them. And I knew I couldn’t be the only
feminist who was a “closet” reader’ (ibid.). As she continues, this did not mean that she
was not (or is not still) critical of women’s magazines, but what is crucial to a feminist
cultural politics is this dialectic of ‘attraction and rejection’ (ibid.).
Many of the guises of femininity in women’s magazines contribute to the secondary
status from which we still desire to free ourselves. At the same time it is the
dress of femininity which is both source of the pleasure of being a woman – and
not a man – and in part the raw material for a feminist vision of the future. . . .
Thus for feminists one important issue women’s magazines can raise is how do we
take over their feminine ground to create new untrammelled images of and for
ourselves? (xiii–xiv).
Part of the aim of Inside Women’s Magazines is, ‘then, to explain the appeal of the magazine
formula and to critically consider its limitations and potential for change’ (8).
Since their inception in the late eighteenth century, women’s magazines have
offered their readers a mixture of advice and entertainment. Regardless of politics,
women’s magazines continue to operate as survival manuals, providing their readers
with practical advice on how to survive in a patriarchal culture. This might take the
form of an explicit feminist politics, as in Spare Rib, for example; or stories of women
triumphing over adversity, as, for example, in Woman’s Own. The politics may be different,
but the formula is much the same.
Women’s magazines appeal to their readers by means of a combination of entertainment
and useful advice. This appeal, according to Winship, is organized around
a range of ‘fictions’. These can be the visual fictions of advertisements, or items on

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fashion, cookery or family and home. They can also be actual fictions: romantic serials,
five-minute stories, for example. There are also the stories of the famous and reports
of events in the lives of ‘ordinary’ women and men. Each in its different way attempts
to draw the reader into the world of the magazine, and ultimately into a world of consumption.
This often leads to women ‘being caught up in defining their own femininity,
inextricably, through consumption’ (39). But pleasure is not totally dependent on
purchase. She recalls how in the hot July in which she wrote Inside Women’s Magazines,
without any intention of buying the product, she gained enormous visual pleasure
from a magazine advertisement showing a woman diving into an ocean surrealistically
continuous with the tap-end of a bath. As she explains,
We recognise and relish the vocabulary of dreams in which ads deal; we become
involved in the fictions they create; but we know full well that those commodities
will not elicit the promised fictions. It doesn’t matter. Without bothering to buy
the product we can vicariously indulge in the good life through the image alone.
This is the compensation for the experience you do not and cannot have (56).
Magazine advertisements, like the magazines themselves, therefore provide a terrain on
which to dream. In this way, they generate a desire for fulfilment (through consumption).
Paradoxically, this is deeply pleasurable because it also always acknowledges the
existence of the labours of the everyday.
They would not offer quite the same pleasure, however, if it were not expected of
women that they perform the various labours around fashion and beauty, food
and furnishing. These visuals acknowledge those labours while simultaneously
enabling the reader to avoid doing them. In everyday life ‘pleasure’ for women can
only be achieved by accomplishing these tasks; here the image offers a temporary
substitute, as well as providing an (allegedly) easy, often enjoyable pathway to
their accomplishment (56–7).
Desire is generated for something more than the everyday, yet it can only be accomplished
by what is for most women an everyday activity – shopping. What is ultimately
being sold in the fictions of women’s magazines, in editorial or advertisements,
fashion and home furnishing items, cookery and cosmetics, is successful and therefore
pleasurable femininity. Follow this practical advice or buy this product and be a better
lover, a better mother, a better wife, and a better woman. The problem with all this
from a feminist perspective is that it is always constructed around a mythical individual
woman, situated outside the influence of powerful social and cultural structures and
constraints.
The commitment to the ‘individual solution’ is often revealed by the way in which
women’s magazines also seek to construct ‘fictional collectivities’ (67) of women.
This can be seen in the insistent ‘we’ of editorials; but it is also there in the reader/
editor interactions of the letters page. Here we often find women making sense of the
everyday world through a mixture of optimism and fatalism. Winship identifies these

Reading women’s magazines 155
tensions as an expression of women being ‘ideologically bound to the personal terrain
and in a position of relative powerlessness about public events’ (70). Like the so-called
‘triumph over tragedy’ stories, the readers’ letters and editorial responses often reveal
a profound commitment to the ‘individual solution’. Both ‘teach’ the same parable:
individual effort will overcome all odds. The reader is interpellated as admiring subject
(see discussion of Althusser in Chapter 4), her own problems put in context, able to
carry on. Short stories work in much the same way. What also links these different
‘fictions’ is ‘that the human triumphs they detail are emotional and not material ones’
(76). In many ways this is essential for the continued existence of the magazines’ imagined
communities; for to move from the emotional to the material is to run the risk of
encountering the divisive presence of, for example, class, sexuality, disability, ethnicity
and ‘race’.
Thus the ‘we women’ feeling magazines construct is actually comprised of different
cultural groups; the very notion of ‘we’ and ‘our world’, however, constantly undercuts
those divisions to give the semblance of a unity inside magazines. Outside,
when the reader closes her magazine, she is no longer ‘friends’ with Esther Rantzen
and her ilk; but while it lasted it has been a pleasant and reassuring dream (77).
This is perhaps even more evident on the problem page. Although the problems are
personal, and therefore seek personal solutions, Winship argues that ‘unless women
have access to knowledge which explains personal lives in social terms . . . the onus on
“you” to solve “your” problem is likely to be intimidating or . . . only lead to frustrated
“solutions” ’ (80). She gives the example of a letter about a husband (with a sexual
past) who cannot forget or forgive his wife’s sexual past. As Winship points out, a personal
solution to this problem cannot begin to tackle the social and cultural heritage
of the sexual double standard. To pretend otherwise is to mislead.
Agony aunties (and magazines) act as ‘friends’ to women – they bring women
together in their pages and yet by not providing the knowledge to allow women to
see the history of their common social condition, sadly and ironically, they come
between women, expecting, and encouraging, them to do alone what they can only
do together (ibid.).
At the centre of Winship’s book are three chapters, which in turn discuss the individual
and family values of Woman’s Own, the (hetero)sexual liberation ideology of
Cosmopolitan and the feminist politics of Spare Rib. I have space only to make one point
with reference to these chapters. Discussing Spare Rib’s reviews of popular film and television,
Winship responds with comments that echo through much recent ‘post-feminist’
analysis (and much of the work discussed in this chapter) on popular culture:
These reviews . . . bolster the reviewer’s position and raise feminism and feminists
to the lofty pedestal of ‘having seen the light’, with the consequent dismissal not
only of a whole range of cultural events but also of many women’s pleasurable and

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interested experiences of them. Whether intentionally or not, feminists are setting
themselves distinctly apart: ‘us’ who know and reject most popular cultural forms
(including women’s magazines), ‘them’ who remain in ignorance and continue to
buy Woman’s Own or watch Dallas. The irony, however, is that many of ‘us’ feel
like ‘them’: closet readers and viewers of this fare (140).
Winship’s comments bring us to the complex question of post-feminism. Does the
term imply that the moment of feminism has been and gone; that it is now a movement
of the past? Certainly, there are those who would wish to suggest that this is the
case. According to Winship, ‘if it means anything useful’, the term refers to the way in
which the ‘boundaries between feminists and non-feminists have become fuzzy’ (149).
This is to a large extent due to the way in which ‘with the “success” of feminism some
feminist ideas no longer have an oppositional charge but have become part of many
people’s, not just a minority’s, common sense’ (ibid.). Of course this does not mean
that all feminist demands have been met (far from it), and that feminism is now
redundant. On the contrary, ‘it suggests that feminism no longer has a simple coherence
around a set of easily defined principles . . . but instead is a much richer, more
diverse and contradictory mix than it ever was in the 1970s’ (ibid.).
In Reading Women’s Magazines, Joke Hermes (1995) begins with an observation on
previous feminist work on women’s magazines: ‘I have always felt strongly that the
feminist struggle in general should be aimed at claiming respect. It is probably for that
reason that I have never felt comfortable with the majority of (feminist) work that has
been done on women’s magazines. Almost all of these studies show concern rather than
respect for those who read women’s magazines’ (1). This kind of approach (what might
be called ‘modernist feminism’), she maintains, generates a form of media criticism in
which the feminist scholar is both ‘prophet and exorcist’ (ibid.). As she explains,
‘Feminists using modernity discourse speak on behalf of others who are, implicitly,
thought to be unable to see for themselves how bad such media texts as women’s
magazines are. They need to be enlightened; they need good feminist texts in order to
be saved from their false consciousness and to live a life free of false depictions as
mediated by women’s magazines, of where a woman might find happiness’ (ibid.).
Against this way of thinking and working, Hermes advocates what she calls ‘a more
postmodern view, in which respect rather than concern – or, for that matter, celebration,
a term often seen as the hallmark of a postmodern perspective – would have a
central place’ (ibid.). She is aware ‘that readers of all kinds (including we critics) enjoy
texts in some contexts that we are critical of in other contexts’ (2). The focus of her
study, therefore, is to ‘understand how women’s magazines are read while accepting
the preferences of [the women she interviewed]’ (ibid.). Working from the perspective
of ‘a postmodern feminist position’, she advocates an ‘appreciation that readers are
producers of meaning rather than the cultural dupes of the media institutions.
Appreciation too of the local and specific meanings we give to media texts and the different
identities any one person may bring to bear on living our multi-faceted lives
in societies saturated with media images and texts of which women’s magazines are
a part’ (ibid.). More specifically, she seeks to situate her work in a middle ground

Reading women’s magazines 157
between a focus on how meanings are made of specific texts (Ang, 1985, Radway,
1987, for example) and a focus on the contexts of media consumption (Gray, 1992,
Morley, 1986, for example). In other words, rather than begin with a text and show
how people appropriate it and make it meaningful, or begin with the contexts of consumption
and show how these constrain the ways in which appropriation and the
making of meaning can take place, she has ‘tried to reconstruct the diffuse genre or set
of genres that is called women’s magazines and [to demonstrate] how they become
meaningful exclusively through the perception of their readers’ (Hermes, 1995: 6). She
calls this approach ‘the theorisation of meaning production in everyday contexts’
(ibid.). In working in this way, she is able to avoid the deployment of textual analysis,
with its implied notion of an identifiably correct meaning, or limited set of meanings,
which a reader may or may not activate. ‘My perspective’, she explains, ‘is that texts
acquire meaning only in the interaction between readers and texts and that analysis of
the text on its own is never enough to reconstruct these meanings’ (10). To enable this
way of working she introduces the concept of ‘repertoires’. She explains the concept as
follows: ‘Repertoires are the cultural resources that speakers fall back on and refer to.
Which repertoires are used depends on the cultural capital of an individual reader’ (8).
Moreover, ‘Texts do not directly have meaning. The various repertoires readers use
make texts meaningful’ (40).
Hermes conducted eighty interviews with both women and men. She was initially
disappointed at the fact that her interviewees seemed reluctant to talk about how they
made meanings from the women’s magazines they read; and when they did discuss this
issue, they often suggested instead, against the ‘common sense’ of much media and cultural
theory, that their encounters with these magazines were hardly meaningful at all.
After the initial disappointment, these discussions gradually prompted Hermes to recognize
what she calls ‘the fallacy of meaningfulness’ (16). What this phrase is intended
to convey is her rejection of a way of working in media and cultural analysis that is
premised on the view that the encounter between reader and text should always be
understood solely in terms of the production of meaning. This general preoccupation
with meaning, she claims, has resulted from an influential body of work that concentrated
on fans (and, I would add, youth subcultures), rather than on the consumption
practices of ordinary people; and, moreover, it resulted from a conspicuous failure to
situate consumption in the routines of everyday life. Against the influence of this body
of work, she argues for a critical perspective in which ‘the media text has to be displaced
in favour of readers’ reports of their everyday lives’ (148). As she explains, ‘To understand
and theorize everyday media use, a more sophisticated view of meaning production
is required than one that does not recognise different levels of psychological
investment or emotional commitment and reflection’ (16).
By a detailed and critical analysis of recurrent themes and repeated issues that arise
in the interview material she collected, Hermes attempts to reconstruct the various
repertoires employed by the interviewees in the consumption of women’s magazines.
She identifies four repertoires: ‘easily put down’, ‘relaxation’, ‘practical knowledge’ and
‘emotional learning and connected knowing’ (31). The first of these repertoires, perhaps
the most straightforward to understand, identifies women’s magazines as a genre

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that makes limited demands on its readers. It is a genre that can be easily picked up
and easily put down, and because of this, it can be easily accommodated into the routines
of everyday life.
The second repertoire, clearly related to the first, and perhaps as expected as the first
repertoire, identifies reading women’s magazines as a form of ‘relaxation’. But, as
Hermes points out, relaxation (like ‘escapism’ discussed earlier in this chapter) should
not be understood as an innocent or a self-evident term – it is, as she maintains, ‘ideologically
loaded’ (36). On the one hand, the term can be employed simply as a valid
description of a particular activity, and, on the other, it can be used as a blocking mechanism
in defence against personal intrusion. Given the low cultural status of women’s
magazines, as Hermes reminds us, using the term ‘relaxation’ as a means to block further
entry into a private realm is perhaps understandable. In other words, I am reading
this magazine to indicate to others that I am currently not available to do other things.
The third repertoire, the repertoire of ‘practical knowledge’, can range from tips on
cooking to film and book reviews. But its apparently secure anchorage in practical
application is deceptive. The repertoire of practical knowledge may offer much more
than practical hints on how to become adept at making Indian cuisine or culturally
knowing about which films are worth going to the cinema to see. Readers can use these
practical tips, Hermes claims, to fantasize an ‘ideal self . . . [who] is pragmatic and
solution-oriented, and a person who can take decisions and is an emancipated consumer;
but above all she is a person in control’ (39). The final repertoire, the repertoire
of ‘emotional learning and connected knowing’, is also about learning, but rather than
being about the collection of practical tips, it is learning through the recognition
of oneself, one’s lifestyle and one’s potential problems, in the problems of others as
represented in the pages of magazine stories and articles. As one interviewee told
Hermes, she likes to read ‘short pieces about people who have had certain problems .
. . [and] how such a problem can be solved’ (41). Or as another interviewee told her,
‘I like to read about how people deal with things’ (42). With specific reference to problem
pages, another interviewee observed, ‘you learn a lot from other people’s problems
. . . and the advice they [the magazine] give’ (43). As with the repertoire of practical
knowledge, the repertoire of emotional and connected learning may also involve
the production of an ideal self, a self who is prepared for all the potential emotional
dangers and human crises that might need to be confronted in the social practices
of everyday life. As Hermes explains, ‘Both the repertoire of practical knowledge and
the repertoire of connected knowing may help readers to gain (an imaginary and temporary)
sense of identity and confidence, of being in control or feeling at peace with
life, that lasts while they are reading and dissipates quickly [unlike the practical tips]
when the magazine is put down’ (48).
Hermes’s originality is to have broken decisively with an approach to cultural analysis
in which the researcher insists on the necessity to establish first the substantive
meaning of a text or texts and then how an audience may or may not read the text to
make this meaning. Against this way of working, as she observes, ‘the repertoires that
readers use give meaning to women’s magazine genres in a way that to a quite remarkable
extent is independent of the women’s magazine text. Readers construct new texts

in the form of fantasies and imagined “new” selves. This leads to the conclusion that a
genre study can be based entirely on how women’s magazines are read and that it does
not need to address the (narrative) structure or content of the text itself at all’ (146).
Against more celebratory accounts of women and consumption, Hermes’s investigation
of the role of repertoires makes her reluctant to see in the practices of women
reading magazines an unproblematical form of empowerment. Instead, she argues, we
should think of the consumption of women’s magazines as providing only temporary
‘moments of empowerment’ (51).
Men’s studies and masculinities
Men’s studies and masculinities 159
Feminism has brought into being many things, but one that some feminists have
already disowned is men’s studies. Despite Peter Schwenger’s concern that for a man
‘to think about masculinity is to become less masculine oneself. . . . The real man
thinks about practical matters rather than abstract ones and certainly does not brood
upon himself or the nature of his sexuality’ (quoted in Showalter, 1990: 7), many men
have thought, spoken and written about masculinity. As Antony Easthope 33 (1986)
writes in What a Man’s Gotta Do, ‘It is time to try to speak about masculinity, about
what it is and how it works’ (1). Easthope’s focus is on what he calls dominant masculinity
(the myth of heterosexual masculinity as something essential and self-evident
which is tough, masterful, self-possessed, knowing, always in control, etc.). He begins
from the proposition that masculinity is a cultural construct; that is, it is not ‘natural’,
‘normal’ or ‘universal’. He argues that dominant masculinity operates as a gender
norm, and that it is against this norm that the many other different types of ‘lived masculinities’
(including gay masculinities) are invited to measure themselves. As part of
this argument, he analyses the way dominant masculinity is represented across a range
of popular cultural texts: pop songs, popular fiction, films, television and newspapers,
and concludes:
Clearly men do not passively live out the masculine myth imposed by the stories
and images of the dominant culture. But neither can they live completely outside
the myth, since it pervades the culture. Its coercive power is active everywhere – not
just on screens, hoardings and paper, but inside our own heads (167).
From a similar perspective, Sean Nixon’s (1996) examination of ‘new man’ masculinity
explores it as ‘a regime of representation’, focusing on ‘four key sites of cultural
circulation: television advertising, press advertising, menswear shops and popular
magazines for men’ (4).
Although it is true that feminists have always encouraged men to examine their masculinity,
many feminists are less than impressed with men’s studies, as Joyce Canaan
and Christine Griffin (1990) make clear:

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While feminist understandings of patriarchy would undoubtedly be wider if
we had access to men’s understandings of how they construct and transform this
pervasive system of relationships, we nevertheless fear that such research might distort,
belittle, or deny women’s experiences with men and masculinity. Feminists
therefore must be even more insistent about conducting research on men and
masculinity at a time when a growing number of men are beginning to conduct
apparently ‘comparable’ research (207–8).
Queer theory
Queer theory, as Paul Burston and Colin Richardson (1995) explain, ‘provides a discipline
for exploring the relationships between lesbians, gay men and the culture which
surrounds and (for the large part) continues to seek to exclude us’ (1). Moreover, ‘[b]y
shifting the focus away from the question of what it means to be lesbian or gay within
the culture, and onto the various performances of heterosexuality created by the
culture, Queer Theory seeks to locate Queerness in places that had previously been
thought of as strictly for the straights’ (ibid.). In this way, they contend, ‘Queer Theory
is no more “about” lesbians and gay men than women’s studies is “about” women.
Indeed, part of the project of Queer is to attack . . . the very “naturalness” of gender
and, by extension, the fictions supporting compulsory heterosexuality’ (ibid.).
To discuss the supposed naturalness of gender and the ideological fictions supporting
compulsory heterosexuality, there is no better place to begin than with one of the
founding texts of queer theory, Judith Butler’s (1999) very influential book Gender
Trouble. Butler begins from Simone de Beauvoir’s (1984) observation that ‘one is not
born a woman, but, rather, becomes one’ (12). De Beauvoir’s distinction establishes an
analytical difference between biological sex (‘nature’) and gender (‘culture’), suggesting
that while biological sex is stable, there will always be different and competing (historically
and socially variable) ‘versions’ of femininity and masculinity (see Figure 7.1).
Although de Beauvoir’s argument has the advantage of seeing gender as something
made in culture – ‘the cultural meanings that the sexed body assumes’ (Butler, 1999:
10) – and not something fixed by nature, the problem with this model of sex/gender,
according to Butler, is that it works with the assumption that there are only two biological
sexes (‘male’ and ‘female’), which are determined by nature, and which in turn
Figure 7.1 The binary gender system.

Queer theory 161
generate and guarantee the binary gender system. Against this position, she argues that
biology is itself always already culturally gendered as ‘male’ and ‘female’, and, as such,
already guarantees a particular version of the feminine and the masculine. Therefore,
the distinction between sex and gender is not a distinction between nature and culture:
‘the category of “sex” is itself a gendered category, fully politically invested, naturalized
but not natural’ (143). In other words, there is not a biological ‘truth’ at the heart of
gender; sex and gender are both cultural categories.
Furthermore, it is not just that ‘gender is not to culture as sex is to nature; gender is
also the discursive/cultural means by which “sexed nature” or “a natural sex” is produced
and established as “prediscursive”, prior to culture, a politically neutral surface
on which culture acts. . . . [In this way,] the internal stability and binary frame for sex is
effectively secured . . . by casting the duality of sex in a prediscursive domain’ (11). As
Butler explains, ‘there is no reason to divide up human bodies into male and female
sexes except that such a division suits the economic needs of heterosexuality and lends
a naturalistic gloss to the institution of heterosexuality’ (143). Therefore, as she contends,
‘one is not born a woman, one becomes one; but further, one is not born female,
one becomes female; but even more radically, one can if one chooses, become neither
female nor male, woman nor man’ (33).
According to Butler’s argument, gender is not the expression of biological sex, it is
performatively constructed in culture. In this way, ‘Gender is the repeated stylization of
the body, a set of repeated acts within a highly rigid regulatory frame that congeal over
time to produce the appearance of substance, of a natural sort of being’ (43–4). In
other words, gender identities consist of the accumulation of what is outside (i.e. in
culture) in the belief that they are an expression of what is inside (i.e. in nature). As a
result ‘ “persons” only become intelligible through becoming gendered in conformity
with recognizable standards of intelligibility’ (22). 34 Femininity and masculinity are
not expressions of ‘nature’, they are ‘cultural performances in which their “naturalness”
[is] constituted through discursively constrained performative acts . . . that create the
effect of the natural, the original, and the inevitable’ (xxviii–xxix).
Butler’s theory of performativity is a development of J.L. Austin’s (1962) theory of
performative language. Austin divides language into two types, constative and performative.
Constative language is descriptive language. ‘The sky is blue’, is an example of
a constative statement. Performative language, on the other hand, does not merely
describe what already exists, it brings something into being. ‘I now pronounce you husband
and wife’ is an obvious example; it does not describe something, it brings it into
existence; that is, when the words are spoken by an appropriate person, they transform
two single people into a married couple. Butler argues that gender works in much the
same way as performative language. As she explains, ‘there is no identity behind the
expressions of gender; that identity is performatively constituted by the very “expressions”
that are said to be its results’ (Butler, 1999: 33). One of the first performative
speech acts we all encounter is the pronouncement, ‘It’s a girl’ or ‘It’s a boy’. Each pronouncement
comes with rules and regulations, which we are expected to follow and
obey: ‘little boys do this, little girls don’t do that’, etc. Various discourses, including
those from parents, educational institutions, the media, will all combine to ensure our

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conformity to ‘performativity as cultural ritual, as the reiteration of cultural norms’
(Butler, 2000: 29). In this way, ‘the performance of gender creates the illusion of a prior
substantiality – a core gendered self – and construes the effect of the performative ritual
of gender as necessary emanations or causal consequences of that prior substance’ (ibid.).
Butler’s concept of performativity should not be confused with the idea of performance
understood as a form of play-acting, in which a more fundamental identity
remains intact beneath the theatricality of the identity on display. Gender
performativity is not a voluntary practice, it is a continual process of almost disciplinary
reiteration: ‘gender performativity cannot be theorized apart from the forcible
and reiterative practice of regulatory sexual regimes . . . and in no way presupposes
a choosing subject’ (Butler, 1993: 15). Sarah E. Chinn (1997) provides an excellent
summary of the process:
While we may recognize that gender is coercive, it is familiar; it is ourselves. The
naturalizing effects of gender means that gender feels natural – even the understanding
that it is performative, that our subjectivities themselves are constructed
through its performance, does not make it feel any the less intrinsic. Our identities
depend upon successful performance of our genders, and there is an entire cultural
arsenal of books, films, television, advertisements, parental injunctions and peer
surveillance to make sure those performances are (ideally) unconscious and successful
(306–7).
Butler (1999) chooses ‘drag’ as a model for explanation not, as some critics seem to
think, because she thinks it is ‘an example of [the] subversion [of gender]’ (xxii), but
because ‘it dramatize[s] the signifying gestures through which gender itself is established’
(xxviii). Drag exposes the assumed and apparent unity and fictional coherence
of the normative heterosexual performance of gender. As Butler explains, ‘In imitating
gender, drag implicitly reveals the imitative structure of gender itself – as well as its
contingency’ (175). To be in drag is not to copy an original and natural gender identity,
it is to ‘imitate the myth of originality itself’ (176). 35 As she explains,
If gender attributes . . . are not expressive but performative, then these attributes
effectively constitute the identity they are said to express or reveal. The distinction
between expression and performativeness is crucial. If gender attributes and acts,
the various ways in which a body shows or produces its cultural signification, are
performative, then there is no preexisting identity by which an act or attribute
might be measured; there would be no true or false, real or distorted acts of gender,
and the postulation of a true gender identity would be revealed as a regulatory
fiction. That gender reality is created through sustained social performances means
that the very notions of an essential sex and a true or abiding masculinity or
femininity are also constituted as part of the strategy that conceals gender’s performative
character and the performative possibilities for proliferating gender
configurations outside the restricting frames of masculinist domination and compulsory
heterosexuality (180). 36

Queer theory 163
Butler (2009) gives the example of Aretha Franklin singing, ‘you make me feel like a
natural woman’: 37
she seems at first to suggest that some natural potential of her biological sex is actualized
by her participation in the cultural position of ‘woman’ as object of heterosexual
recognition. Something in her ‘sex’ is thus expressed by her ‘gender’ which
is then fully known and consecrated within the heterosexual scene. There is no
breakage, no discontinuity between ‘sex’ as biological facticity and essence, or
between gender and sexuality. Although Aretha appears to be all too glad to have
her naturalness confirmed, she also seems fully and paradoxically mindful that
that confirmation is never guaranteed, that the effect of naturalness is only
achieved as a consequence of that moment of heterosexual recognition. After all,
Aretha sings, you make me feel like a natural woman, suggesting that this is a kind
of metaphorical substitution, an act of imposture, a kind of sublime and momentary
participation in an ontological illusion produced by the mundane operation
of heterosexual drag (2009: 235; italics in original).
If, as Butler (1999) maintains, ‘gender reality is created through sustained social performances’
(180), perhaps one of the principal theatres for its creation is consumption.
Michael Warner (1993) has noted a connection between gay culture and particular patterns
of consumption. Such a relationship, he argues, demands a rethinking of the
political economy of culture (see Chapter 10). As he explains, there is
the close connection between consumer culture and the most visible spaces of
gay culture: bars, discos, advertising, fashion, brand-name identification, mass
cultural-camp, ‘promiscuity’. Gay culture in this most visible mode is anything
but external to advanced capitalism and to precisely those features of advanced
capitalism that many on the left are most eager to disavow. Post-Stonewall urban
gay men reek of the commodity. We give off the smell of capitalism in rut, and
therefore demand of theory a more dialectical view of capitalism than many
people have imagination for (xxxi).
In a similar way, Corey K. Creekmur and Alexander Doty (1995) point out that ‘the
identity that we designate homosexual arose in tandem with capitalist consumer culture’
(1). They draw attention to the particular relationship that gays and lesbians have often
had with popular culture: ‘an alternative or negotiated, if not fully subversive, reception
of the products and messages of popular culture, [wondering] how they might
have access to mainstream culture without denying or losing their oppositional identities,
how they might participate without necessarily assimilating, how they might take
pleasure in, and make affirmative meanings out of, experiences and artefacts that they
have been told do not offer queer pleasures and meanings’ (1–2). In other words, ‘a
central issue is how to be “out in culture”: how to occupy a place in mass culture, yet
maintain a perspective on it that does not accept its homophobic and heterocentrist
definitions, images, and terms of analysis’ (2).

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Alexander Doty (1995) argues that ‘queerness as a mass culture reception practice
. . . is shared by all sorts of people in varying degrees of consistency and intensity’ (73).
As he explains, queer reading is not confined to gays and lesbians, ‘heterosexual,
straight-identifying people can experience queer moments’ (ibid.). The term ‘queer’ is
used by Doty ‘to mark a flexible space for the expression of all aspects of non- (anti-,
contra-) straight cultural production and reception. As such, ‘this “queer space” recognizes
the possibility that various and fluctuating queer positions might be occupied
whenever anyone produces or responds to culture’ (73; italics in original). The ‘queer
space’ identified by Doty is, as he explains, best thought of as a ‘contrastraight, rather
than strictly antistraight, space’ (83):
Queer positions, queer readings, and queer pleasures are part of a reception space
that stands simultaneously beside and within that created by heterosexual and
straight positions. . . . What queer reception often does, however, is stand outside
the relatively clear-cut and essentializing categories of sexual identity under which
most people function. You might identify yourself as a lesbian or a straight woman
yet queerly experience the gay erotics of male buddy films such as Red River and
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid; or maybe as a gay man your cultlike devotion
to Laverne and Shirley, Kate and Allie, or The Golden Girls has less to do with straightdefined
cross-gender identification than with articulating the loving relationship
between women. Queer readings aren’t ‘alternative’ readings, wishful or wilful misreadings,
or ‘reading too much into things’ readings. They result from the recognition
and articulation of the complex range of queerness that has been in popular
culture texts and their audiences all along (83–4).
Further reading
Storey, John (ed.), Cultural Theory and Popular Culture: A Reader, 4th edition, Harlow:
Pearson Education, 2009. This is the companion volume to this book. It contains
examples of most of the work discussed here. This book and the companion Reader
are supported by an interactive website (www.pearsoned.co.uk/storey). The website
has links to other useful sites and electronic resources.
Ang, Ien, Living Room Wars: Rethinking Media Audiences for a Postmodern World, London:
Routledge, 1995. An excellent collection of essays from one of the leading intellectuals
in the field.
Barrett, Michèle, Women’s Oppression Today: Problems in Marxist Feminist Analysis,
London: Verso, 1980. The book is of general interest to the student of popular culture
in its attempt to synthesize Marxist and feminist modes of analysis; of particular
interest is Chapter 3, ‘Ideology and the cultural production of gender’.
Brunt, Rosalind and Caroline Rowan (eds), Feminism, Culture and Politics, London:
Lawrence & Wishart, 1982. A collection of essays illustrative of feminist modes of

Further reading 165
analysis. See especially: Michèle Barrett, ‘Feminism and the definition of cultural
politics’.
Burston, Paul and Colin Richardson (eds), A Queer Romance: Lesbians, Gay Men and
Popular Culture, London: Routledge, 1995. An interesting collection of essays looking
at popular culture from the perspective(s) of queer theory.
Creekmur, Corey K. and Alexander Doty (eds), Out in Culture: Gay, Lesbian, and Queer
Essays on Popular Culture, London: Cassell, 1995. An excellent collection of essays
on contemporary popular culture from an antihomophobic and antiheterocentrist
perspective.
Easthope, Antony, What a Man’s Gotta Do: The Masculine Myth in Popular Culture,
London: Paladin, 1986. A useful and entertaining account of the ways in which
masculinity is represented in contemporary popular culture.
Franklin, Sarah, Celia Lury and Jackie Stacy (eds), Off Centre: Feminism and Cultural
Studies, London: HarperCollins, 1991. An excellent collection of feminist work in
cultural studies.
Geraghty, Christine, Women and Soap Opera: A Study of Prime Time Soaps, Cambridge:
Polity Press, 1991. A comprehensive introduction to feminist analysis of soap
operas.
Jeffords, Susan, The Remasculinization of America: Gender and the Vietnam War,
Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1989. The book explores
representations of masculinity across a range of popular texts to argue that following
the crisis of defeat in Vietnam strenuous attempts have been made to remasculinize
American culture.
Macdonald, Myra, Representing Women: Myths of Femininity in Popular Media, London:
Edward Arnold, 1995. An excellent introduction to the way women are talked about
and constructed visually across a range of popular media.
McRobbie, Angela, Feminism and Youth Culture, London: Macmillan, 1991. A selection
from the work of one of the leading figures in feminist analysis of popular culture.
Pribram, Deidre E. (ed.), Female Spectators: Looking at Film and Television, London:
Verso, 1988. A useful collection of essays looking at different aspects of filmic and
televisual popular culture.
Thornham, Sue, Passionate Detachments: An Introduction to Feminist Film Theory, London:
Edward Arnold, 1997. An excellent introduction to the contribution of feminism to
the study of film.

8 ‘Race’, racism and
representation
In this chapter I will examine the concept of ‘race’ and the historical development of
racism in England. I will then explore a particular regime of racial representation,
Edward Said’s analysis of Orientalism. I will use Hollywood’s account of America’s war
in Vietnam, and its potential impact on recruitment for the first Gulf War as an example
of Orientalism in popular culture. The chapter will conclude with a brief discussion of
cultural studies and anti-racism.
‘Race’ and racism
The first thing to insist on in discussions of ‘race’ is that there is just one human race.
Human biology does not divide people into different ‘races’; it is racism (and sometimes
its counter arguments) that insists on this division. In other words, ‘race’ is a
cultural and historical category, a way of making difference signify between people of a
variety of skin tones. What is important is not difference as such, but how it is made to
signify; how it is made meaningful in terms of a social and political hierarchy (see
Chapters 4 and 6). This is not to deny that human beings come in different colours and
with different physical features, but it is to insist that these differences do not issue
meanings; they have to be made to mean. Moreover, there is no reason why skin colour
is more significant than hair colour or the colour of a person’s eyes. In other words,
racism is more about signification than it is about biology. As Paul Gilroy observes,
Accepting that skin ‘colour’, however meaningless we know it to be, has a strictly
limited basis in biology, opens up the possibility of engaging with theories of signification
which can highlight the elasticity and the emptiness of ‘racial’ signifiers as
well as the ideological work which has to be done in order to turn them into signifiers
in the first place. This perspective underscores the definition of ‘race’ as an open
political category, for it is struggle that determines which definition of ‘race’ will
prevail and the conditions under which they will endure or wither away (2002: 36).
This should not be mistaken for a form of idealism. Difference exists whether it
is made to signify or not. But how it is made to signify is always a result of politics
and power, rather than a question of biology. As Gilroy points out, ‘“Race” has to be

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socially and politically constructed and elaborate ideological work is done to secure
and maintain the different forms of “racialization” which have characterized capitalist
development. Recognizing this makes it all the more important to compare and evaluate
the different historical situations in which “race” has become politically pertinent’
(35). Working from this perspective, analysis of ‘race’ in popular culture would be the
exploration of the different ways in which it has and can be made to signify.
As Stuart Hall points out, there are three key moments in the history of ‘race’ and
racism in the West (Hall 1997c). These occur around slavery and the slave trade, colonialism
and imperialism, and 1950s immigration following decolonization. In the
next section I will focus on how slavery and the slave trade produced the first detailed
public discussions around ‘race’ and racism. It was in these discussions that the basic
assumptions and vocabulary of ‘race’ and racism were first formulated. It is important
to understand that ‘race’ and racism are not natural or inevitable phenomena; they
have a history and are the result of human actions and interactions. But often they are
made to appear as inevitable, something grounded in nature rather than what they
really are, products of human culture. Again, as Paul Gilroy observes,
For those timid souls, it would appear that becoming resigned both to the absolute
status of ‘race’ as a concept and to the intractability of racism as a permanent
perversion akin to original sin, is easier than the creative labour involved in invisioning
and producing a more just world, purged of racial hierarchy . . . Rather
than accepting the power of racism as prior to politics and seeing it as an
inescapable natural force that configures human consciousness and action in ways
and forms that merely political considerations simply can never match, this ongoing
work involves making ‘race’ and racism into social and political phenomena
again (xx).
According to Gilroy, there needs to be a reduction in ‘the exaggerated dimensions
of racial difference to a liberating ordinary-ness’, adding that ‘“race” is nothing special,
a virtual reality given meaning only by the fact that racism endures’ (xxii). In other
words, without racism there would be little meaning to the concept of ‘race’. It is racism
that keeps the concept alive. What needs to be recognized is ‘the banality of intermixture
and the subversive ordinariness of this country’s [the United Kingdom] convivial
cultures in which “race” is stripped of meaning and racism just an after-effect of
long gone imperial history’ (xxxviii).
The ideology of racism: its historical emergence
While it is possible to argue that xenophobia, deriving from ignorance and fear, has
perhaps existed as long as different ethnic groups have existed, ‘race’ and racism have
a very particular history. Racism first develops in England as a defence of slavery and

The ideology of racism: its historical emergence 169
the slave trade. As Peter Fryer (1984) points out, ‘Once the English slave trade, English
sugar-producing plantation slavery, and English manufacturing industry had begun to
operate as a trebly profitable interlocking system, the economic basis had been laid for
all those ancient scraps of myth and prejudice to be woven into a more or less coherent
racist ideology: a mythology of race’ (134). In other words, racism first emerges as
a defensive ideology, promulgated in order to defend the economic profits of slavery
and the slave trade.
A key figure in the development of the ideology of racism is the planter and judge
Edward Long. In his book History of Jamaica (1774) he popularized the idea that black
people are inferior to white people, thus suggesting that slavery and the slave trade
were perfectly acceptable institutions. His starting position is the assertion that there is
an absolute racial division between black and white people:
I think there are extremely potent reasons for believing, that the White and the
Negroe are two distinct species. . . . When we reflect on . . . their dissimilarity to the
rest of mankind, must we not conclude, that they are a different species of the same
genus? . . . Nor do [orang-utans] seem at all inferior in the intellectual faculties to
many of the Negroe race; with some of whom, it is credible that they have the most
intimate connection and consanguinity. The amorous intercourse between them
may be frequent . . . and it is certain, that both races agree perfectly well in lasciviousness
of disposition (quoted in Fryer 1984, 158–9).
Charles White, writing in 1795 made similar claims, ‘The white European . . . being
most removed from brute creation, may, on that account, be considered as the most
beautiful of the human race. No one will doubt his superiority in intellectual powers;
and I believe it will be found that his capacity is naturally superior also to that of every
other man’ (168).
Edward Long’s own racism is clearly underpinned by sexual anxieties. In a pamphlet
published in 1772, in which racism is mixed with his contempt for working-class
women, he claims that
[t]he lower class of women in England, are remarkably fond of the blacks, for
reasons too brutal to mention; they would connect themselves with horses and
asses if the law permitted them. By these ladies they generally have a numerous
brood. Thus, in the course of a few generations more, the English blood will
become so contaminated with this mixture, and from the chances, the ups and
downs of life, this alloy may spread extensively, as even to reach the middle,
and then the higher orders of the people, till the whole nation resembles the
Portuguese and Moriscos in complexion of skin and baseness of mind (157).
Similarly, in Considerations on the Negroe Cause (1772), Samuel Estwick argued that
black people should be prevented from entering the country in order to ‘preserve the
race of Britons from stain and contamination’ (156). Philip Thicknesse, writing in
1778, makes similar points:

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in the course of a few centuries they will over-run this country with a race of men
of the very worst sort under heaven. . . . London abounds with an incredible number
of these black men . . . and [in] every country town, nay in almost every village
are to be seen a little race of mulattoes, mischievous as monkeys and infinitely
more dangerous. ...A mixture of negro blood with the natives of this country is
big with great and mighty mischief (162).
Linking this concern directly to the abolition of slavery, John Scattergood, writing in
1792, argued that if slavery is allowed to end, ‘the Negroes from all parts of the world
will flock hither, mix with the natives, spoil the breed of our common people, increase
the number of crimes and criminals, and make Britain the sink of all the earth, for
mongrels, vagrants, and vagabonds’ (164).
A letter published in the London Chronicle in 1764, which finds an insidious echo in
contemporary debates on immigration, is concerned that too many black servants are
coming into Britain:
As they fill the places of so many of our own people, we are by this means depriving
so many of them of the means of getting their bread, and thereby decreasing
our native population in favour of a race, whose mixture with us is disgraceful, and
whose use cannot be so various and essential as those of white people . . . They
never can be considered as a part of the people, and therefore their introduction
into the community can only serve to elbow as many out of it who are genuine
subjects, and in every point preferable. . . . It is . . . high time that some remedy be
applied for the cure of so great an evil, which may be done by totally prohibiting
the importation of any more of them (155).
Given that slavery and the slave trade were of economic benefit to many people not
directly involved with its practice, the new ideology of racism spread quickly among
those without a direct economic interest in slavery and the slave trade. Scottish
philosopher David Hulme, for example, was quite clear about the difference between
whites and non-whites. Writing in 1753, he observed,
I am apt to suspect the negroes, and in general all the other species of men (for
there are four or five different kinds) to be naturally inferior to the whites. There
never was a civilised nation of any other complexion than white. . . . Such a uniform
and constant difference could not happen, in so many countries and ages, if
nature had not made an original distinction betwixt these breeds of men. ...In
Jamaica indeed they talk of one negroe 38 as a man of parts and learning; but ’tis
likely he is admired for very slender accomplishments, like a parrot, who speaks a
few words plainly (152).
By the nineteenth-century, it was widely taken for granted that the human race was
divided into superior whites and inferior others. With such natural gifts, it would seem
only right that white Europeans should establish colonies across the globe. Moreover,

as Fryer points out, ‘racism was not confined to a handful of cranks. Virtually every scientist
and intellectual in nineteenth-century Britain took it for granted that only people
with white skin were capable of thinking and governing’ (1984: 169). In fact, it was
probably only after the Second World War that racism finally lost its scientific support.
In the nineteenth-century racism could even make colonial conquest appear as if
directed by God. According to Thomas Carlyle, writing in 1867, ‘The Almighty Maker
appointed him [“the Nigger”] to be a Servant’ (quoted in Fryer, 1984: 172). Sir Harry
Johnston (1899), who had worked as a colonial administrator in South Africa and
Uganda, claimed that ‘The negro in general is a born slave’, with the natural capacity
to ‘toil hard under the hot sun and in unhealthy climates of the torrid zone’ (173).
Even if the hot sun or the unhealthy climate proved too much, the white Europeans
should not overly concern themselves with possibilities of suffering and injustice.
Dr Robert Knox, for example, described by Philip Curtin as ‘one of the key figures in
the general Western . . . pseudo-scientific racism’ (1964: 377), was very reassuring on
this point: ‘What signify these dark races to us? . . . [T]he sooner they are put out of the
way the better. . . . Destined by the nature of their race, to run, like all other animals, a
certain limited course of existence, it matters little how their extinction is brought
about’ (quoted in Fryer, 1984: 175).
Knox is certainly extreme in his racism. A less extreme version, justifying imperialism
on grounds of a supposed civilising mission, was expressed by James Hunt.
Founder of the Anthropological Society of London in 1863, Hunt argued that although
‘the Negro is inferior intellectually to the European, [he or she] becomes more humanised
when in his natural subordination to the European than under any other circumstances’
(177). In fact, as he makes clear, ‘the Negro race can only be humanised and
civilised by Europeans’ (ibid.). Colonial secretary Joseph Chamberlain (1895) offers a
wonderful summary of this argument: ‘I believe that the British race is the greatest of
governing races the world has ever seen. I say this not merely as an empty boast, but as
proved and shown by the success which we have had in administering vast dominions
. . . and I believe there are no limits accordingly to its future’ (183).
Orientalism
Orientalism 171
Edward Said (1985), in one of the founding texts of post-colonial theory, shows how
a Western discourse on the Orient – ‘Orientalism’ – has constructed a ‘knowledge’ of
the East and a body of ‘power–knowledge’ relations articulated in the interests of the
‘power’ of the West. According to Said, ‘The Orient was a European invention’ (1).
‘Orientalism’ is the term he uses to describe the relationship between Europe and the
Orient, in particular, the way ‘the Orient has helped to define Europe (or the West) as
its contrasting image, idea, personality, experience’ (1–2). He ‘also tries to show that
European culture gained in strength and identity by setting itself off against the Orient
as a sort of surrogate and even underground self’ (3).

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Orientalism can be discussed and analysed as the corporate institution for dealing
with the Orient – dealing with it by making statements about it, authorising views
of it, describing it, by teaching it, settling it, ruling over it: in short, Orientalism as
a Western style for dominating, restructuring, and having authority over the Orient
(ibid.).
In other words, Orientalism, a ‘system of ideological fiction’ (321), is a matter of
power. It is one of the mechanisms by which the West maintained its hegemony over
the Orient. This is in part achieved by an insistence on an absolute difference between
the West and the Orient, in which ‘the West . . . is rational, developed, humane, superior,
and the Orient . . . is aberrant, undeveloped, inferior’ (300).
How does all this, in more general terms, relate to the study of popular culture? It
is not too difficult to see how imperial fictions might be better understood using the
approach developed by Said. There are basically two imperial plot structures. First, stories
that tell of white colonizers succumbing to the primeval power of the jungle and,
as the racist myth puts it, ‘going native’. Kurtz of both Heart of Darkness and Apocalypse
Now is such a figure. Then there are stories of whites, who because of the supposed
power of their racial heredity impose themselves on the jungle and its inhabitants.
‘Tarzan’ (novels, films and myth) is the classic representation of this imperial fiction.
From the perspective of Orientalism both narratives tell us a great deal more about the
desires and anxieties of the culture of imperialism than they can ever tell us about the
people and places of colonial conquest. What the approach does is to shift the focus of
attention away from what and where the narratives are about to the ‘function’ that they
may serve to the producers and consumers of such fictions. It prevents us from slipping
into a form of naive realism: that is, away from a focus on what the stories tell us about
Africa or the Africans, to what such representations tell us about Europeans and
Americans. In effect, it shifts our concern from ‘how’ the story is told to ‘why’, and from
those whom the story is about to those who tell and consume the story.
Hollywood’s Vietnam, the way it tells the story of America’s war in Vietnam, is in
many ways a classic example of a particular form of Orientalism. Rather than the silence
of defeat, there has been a veritable ‘incitement’ to talk about Vietnam. America’s
most unpopular war has become its most popular when measured in discursive and
commercial terms. Although America no longer has ‘authority over’ Vietnam, it continues
to hold authority over Western accounts of America’s war in Vietnam. Hollywood
as a ‘corporate institution’ deals with Vietnam ‘by making statements about it,
authorising views of it, describing it, by teaching it’. Hollywood has ‘invented’ Vietnam
as a ‘contrasting image’ and a ‘surrogate and . . . underground self’ of America. In this
way Hollywood – together with other discursive practices, such as songs, novels, TV
serials, etc. – has succeeded in producing a very powerful discourse on Vietnam: telling
America and the world that what happened there, happened because Vietnam is like
that. These different discourses are not just about Vietnam; they may increasingly
constitute for many Americans the experience of Vietnam. They may become the war
itself.

Orientalism 173
From the perspective of Orientalism it does not really matter whether Hollywood’s
representations are ‘true’ or ‘false’ (historically accurate or not); what matters is the
‘regime of truth’ (Michel Foucault; discussed in Chapter 6) they put into circulation.
From this perspective, Hollywood’s power is not a negative force, something that
denies, represses, negates. On the contrary, it is productive. Foucault’s general point
about power is also true with regard to Hollywood’s power:
We must cease once and for all to describe the effects of power in negative terms:
it ‘excludes’, it ‘represses’, it ‘censors’, it ‘abstracts’, it ‘masks’, it ‘conceals’. In fact,
power produces; it produces reality; it produces domains of objects and rituals of
truth (1979: 194).
Moreover, as he also points out, ‘Each society has its own regime of truth, its “general
politics” of truth – that is, the types of discourse it accepts and makes function as true’
(2002a: 131). On the basis of this, I want now to briefly describe three narrative
paradigms, models for understanding, or ‘regimes of truth’, which featured strongly in
Hollywood’s Vietnam in the 1980s. 39
The first narrative paradigm is ‘the war as betrayal’. This is first of all a discourse
about bad leaders. In Uncommon Valor, Missing in Action I, Missing in Action II: The
Beginning, Braddock: Missing in Action III and Rambo: First Blood Part II, for example,
politicians are blamed for America’s defeat in Vietnam. When John Rambo (Sylvester
Stallone) is asked to return to Vietnam in search of American soldiers missing in action,
he asks, with great bitterness: ‘Do we get to win this time?’ In other words, will the
politicians let them win? Second, it is a discourse about weak military leadership in the
field. In Platoon and Casualties of War, for example, defeat, it is suggested, is the result
of an incompetent military command. Third, it is also a discourse about civilian
betrayal. Both Cutter’s Way and First Blood suggest that the war effort was betrayed back
home in America. Again John Rambo’s comments are symptomatic. When he is told
by Colonel Trautman, ‘It’s over Johnny’, he responds,
Nothing is over. You don’t just turn it off. It wasn’t my war. You asked me, and I
did what I had to do to win, but somebody wouldn’t let us win. And I come back
to the world and see these maggots protesting at the airport, calling me baby-killer.
Who are they to protest me? I was there, they weren’t!
Interestingly, all the films in this category are structured around loss. In Uncommon
Valor, Missing in Action I, II, and III, Rambo: First Blood Part II, and POW: The Escape, it
is lost prisoners; in Cutter’s Way, First Blood, and Born on the Fourth of July, it is lost
pride; in Platoon and Casualties of War it is lost innocence. It seems clear that the different
versions of what is lost are symptomatic of a displacement of a greater loss: the
displacement of that which can barely be named, America’s defeat in Vietnam. The use
of American POWs is undoubtedly the most ideologically charged of these displacement
strategies. It seems to offer the possibility of three powerful political effects. First,

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to accept the myth that there are Americans still being held in Vietnam is to begin to
retrospectively justify the original intervention. If the Vietnamese are so barbaric as to
still hold prisoners decades after the conclusion of the conflict, then there is no need
to feel guilty about the war, as they surely deserved the full force of American military
intervention. Second, Susan Jeffords identifies a process she calls the ‘femininization
of loss’ (1989: 145). That is, those blamed for America’s defeat, whether they are
unpatriotic protesters, an uncaring government, a weak and incompetent military
command, or corrupt politicians, are always represented as stereotypically feminine:
‘the stereotyped characteristics associated with the feminine in dominant U.S. culture
– weakness, indecisiveness, dependence, emotion, nonviolence, negotiation, unpredictability,
deception’ (145). Jeffords’ argument is illustrated perfectly in the MIA cycle
of films in which the ‘feminine’ negotiating stance of the politicians is played out
against the ‘masculine’, no-nonsense approach of the returning veterans. The implication
being that ‘masculine’ strength and single-mindedness would have won the war,
whilst ‘feminine’ weakness and duplicity lost it. Third, perhaps most important of all
is how these films turned what was thought to be lost into something which was only
missing. Defeat is displaced by the ‘victory’ of finding and recovering American POWs.
Puzzled by the unexpected success of Uncommon Valor in 1983, the New York Times sent
a journalist to interview the film’s ‘audience’. One moviegoer was quite clear why the
film was such a box-office success: ‘We get to win the Vietnam War’ (quoted in H. Bruce
Franklin 1993: 141).
The second narrative paradigm is ‘the inverted firepower syndrome’. This is a narrative
device in which the United States’ massive techno-military advantage is inverted.
Instead of scenes of the massive destructive power of American military force, we are
shown countless narratives of individual Americans fighting the numberless (and often
invisible) forces of the North Vietnamese Army and/or the sinister and shadowy men
and women of the National Liberation Front (‘Viet Cong’). Missing In Action I, II, and
III, Rambo: First Blood Part II, and Platoon, all contain scenes of lone Americans struggling
against overwhelming odds. John Rambo, armed only with a bow and arrow, is
perhaps the most notorious example. Platoon, however, takes this narrative strategy on
to another plane altogether. In a key scene, ‘good’ Sergeant Elias is pursued by a countless
number of North Vietnamese soldiers. He is shot continually until he falls to his
knees, spreading his arms out in a Christ-like gesture of agony and betrayal. The camera
pans slowly to emphasize the pathos of his death throes. In Britain the film was
promoted with a poster showing Elias in the full pain of his ‘crucifixion’. Above the
image is written the legend: ‘The First Casualty of War is Innocence’. Loss of innocence
is presented as both a realization of the realities of modern warfare and as a result of
America playing fair against a brutal and ruthless enemy. The ideological implication
is clear: if America lost by playing the good guy, it is ‘obvious’ that it will be necessary
in all future conflicts to play the tough guy in order to win.
The third narrative paradigm is ‘the Americanization of the war’. What I want to
indicate by this term is the way in which the meaning of the Vietnam War has become
in Hollywood’s Vietnam (and elsewhere in US cultural production) an absolutely
American phenomenon. This is an example of what we might call ‘imperial narcissism’,

Orientalism 175
in which the United States is centred and Vietnam and the Vietnamese exist only to
provide a context for an American tragedy, whose ultimate brutality is the loss of
American innocence. And like any good tragedy, it was doomed from the beginning to
follow the dictates of fate. It was something that just happened. Hollywood’s Vietnam
exhibits what Linda Dittmar and Gene Michaud call a ‘mystique of unintelligibility’
(1990: 13). Perhaps the most compelling example of the mystique of unintelligibility
is the opening sequence in the American video version of Platoon. It begins with a few
words of endorsement from the then chairman of the Chrysler Corporation. We see
him moving through a clearing in a wood towards a jeep. He stops at the jeep, and resting
against it, addresses the camera,
This jeep is a museum piece, a relic of war. Normandy, Anzio, Guadalcanal, Korea,
Vietnam. I hope we will never have to build another jeep for war. This film Platoon
is a memorial not to war but to all the men and women who fought in a time and
in a place nobody really understood, who knew only one thing: they were called and
they went. It was the same from the first musket fired at Concord to the rice paddies
of the Mekong Delta: they were called and they went. That in the truest sense
is the spirit of America. The more we understand it, the more we honor those who
kept it alive [my italics] (quoted in Harry W. Haines 1990: 81).
This is a discourse in which there is nothing to explain but American survival.
Getting ‘Back to the World’ is everything it is about. It is an American tragedy and
America and Americans are its only victims. The myth is expressed with numbing precision
in Chris Taylor’s (Charlie Sheen) narration at the end of Platoon. Taylor looks
back from the deck of a rising helicopter on the dead and dying of the battlefield
below. Samuel Barber’s mournful and very beautiful Adagio for Strings seems to dictate
the cadence and rhythm of his voice as he speaks these words of psycho-babble, about
a war in which more than two million Vietnamese were killed, ‘I think now looking
back, we did not fight the enemy, we fought ourselves. The enemy was in us’. Time
Magazine’s (26 January 1987) review of the film echoes and elaborates this theme:
Welcome back to the war that, just 20 years ago, turned America schizophrenic.
Suddenly we were a nation split between left and right, black and white, hip and
square, mothers and fathers, parents and children. For a nation whose war history
had read like a John Wayne war movie – where good guys finished first by being
tough and playing fair – the polarisation was soul-souring. Americans were fighting
themselves, and both sides lost.
Platoon’s function in this scenario is to heal the schizophrenia of the American body
politic. The film’s rewriting of the war not only excludes the Vietnamese, it also rewrites
the anti-war movement. Pro-war and anti-war politics are re-enacted as different positions
in a debate on how best to fight and win the war. One group (led by the ‘good’
Sergeant Elias and who listens to Jefferson Airplane’s ‘White Rabbit’ and smokes marijuana)
wants to fight the war with honour and dignity, whilst the other (led by the

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‘bad’ Sergeant Barnes and who listens to Merle Haggard’s ‘Okie from Muskogee’ and
drinks beer) wants to fight the war in any way which will win it. We are asked to
believe that this was the essential conflict which tore America apart – the anti-war
movement, dissolved into a conflict on how best to fight and win the war. As Michael
Klein contends ‘the war is decontextualized, mystified as a tragic mistake, an existential
adventure, or a rite of passage through which the White American Hero discovers his
identity’ (1990: 10).
Although I have outlined three of the dominant narrative paradigms in Hollywood’s
Vietnam, I do not want to suggest that these were or are unproblematically consumed by
its American audiences (or any other audience). My claim is only that Hollywood produced
a particular regime of truth. But film (like any other cultural text or practice) has
to be made to mean (see Chapter 10). To really discover the extent to which Hollywood’s
Vietnam has made its ‘truth’ tell requires a consideration of consumption. This will
take us beyond a focus on the meaning of a text, to a focus on the meanings that can
be made in the encounter between the discourses of the text and the discourses of
the ‘consumer’, as it is never a matter of verifying (with an ‘audience’) the real meaning
of, say, Platoon. The focus on consumption (understood as ‘production in use’) is to
explore the political effectivity (or otherwise) of, say, Platoon. If a cultural text is to
become effective (politically or otherwise) it must be made to connect with people’s
lives – become part of their ‘lived culture’. Formal analysis of Hollywood’s Vietnam may
point to how the industry has articulated the war as an American tragedy of bravery and
betrayal, but this does not tell us that it has been consumed as a war of bravery and
betrayal.
In the absence of ethnographic work on the audience for Hollywood’s Vietnam,
I want to point to two pieces of evidence that may provide us with clues to the circulation
and effectivity of Hollywood’s articulation of the war. The first consists of
speeches made by President George Bush in the build-up to the first Gulf War, and
the second are comments made by American Vietnam veterans about Hollywood
and other representations of the war. But, to be absolutely clear, these factors, however
compelling they may be in themselves, do not provide conclusive proof that
Hollywood’s account of the war has become hegemonic where it matters – in the lived
practices of everyday life.
In the weeks leading up to the first Gulf War, Newsweek (10 December 1990)
featured a cover showing a photograph of a serious-looking George Bush. Above the
photograph was the banner headline, ‘This will not be another Vietnam’. The headline
was taken from a speech made by Bush in which he said, ‘In our country, I know that
there are fears of another Vietnam. Let me assure you . . . this will not be another
Vietnam’. In another speech, Bush again assured his American audience that, ‘This will
not be another Vietnam’. But this time he explained why: ‘Our troops will have the best
possible support in the entire world. They will not be asked to fight with one hand tied
behind their backs’ (quoted in the Daily Telegraph, January 1991).
In these speeches, Bush was seeking to put to rest a spectre that had come to haunt
America’s political and military self-image, what former President Richard Nixon had

Orientalism 177
called the ‘Vietnam Syndrome’ (1986). The debate over American foreign policy had,
according to Nixon, been ‘grotesquely distorted’ by reluctance ‘to use power to defend
national interests’ (13). Fear of another Vietnam, had made America ‘ashamed of . . .
[its] power, guilty about being strong’ (19).
In the two Bush speeches from which I have quoted, and in many other similar
speeches, Bush was articulating what many powerful American voices throughout the
1980s had sought to make the dominant meaning of the war: ‘the Vietnam War as a
noble cause betrayed – an American tragedy’. For example, in the 1980 presidential campaign
Ronald Reagan declared, in an attempt to put an end to the Vietnam Syndrome,
‘It is time we recognized that ours was, in truth, a noble cause’ (quoted in John Carlos
Rowe and Rick Berg, 1991: 10). Moreover, Reagan insisted, ‘Let us tell those who
fought in that war that we will never again ask young men to fight and possibly die in
a war our government is afraid to let us win’ (quoted in Stephen Vlastos, 1991: 69). In
1982 (almost a decade after the last US combat troops left Vietnam), the Vietnam
Veterans’ memorial was unveiled in Washington. Reagan observed that Americans were
‘beginning to appreciate that [the Vietnam War] was a just cause’ (quoted in Barbie
Zelizer, 1995: 220). In 1984 (eleven years after the last US combat troops left Vietnam)
the Unknown Vietnam Soldier was buried; at the ceremony President Reagan claimed,
‘An American hero has returned home. . . . He accepted his mission and did his duty.
And his honest patriotism overwhelms us’ (quoted in Rowe and Berg, 1991: 10). In
1985 (twelve years after the last US combat troops left Vietnam), New York staged
the first of the ‘Welcome Home’ parades for Vietnam veterans. In this powerful mix
of political rhetoric and national remembering, there is a clear attempt to put in place
a new ‘consensus’ about the meaning of America’s war in Vietnam. It begins in 1980
in Reagan’s successful presidential campaign and ends in 1991 with the triumphalism
of Bush after victory in the first Gulf War. Therefore, when, in the build-up to the
Gulf War, Bush had asked Americans to remember the Vietnam War, the memories
recalled by many Americans may have been of a war they had lived cinematically; a
war of bravery and betrayal. Hollywood’s Vietnam had provided the materials to
rehearse, elaborate, interpret and retell an increasingly dominant memory of America’s
war in Vietnam.
This was a memory that had little relationship to the ‘facts’ of the war. Put simply,
the United States deployed in Vietnam the most intensive firepower the world had ever
witnessed. Hollywood narratives do not feature the deliberate defoliation of large areas
of Vietnam, the napalm strikes, the search-and-destroy missions, the use of Free Fire
Zones, the mass bombing. For example, during the ‘Christmas bombing’ campaign of
1972, the United States ‘dropped more tonnage of bombs on Hanoi and Haiphong
than Germany dropped on Great Britain from 1940 to 1945’ (Franklin, 1993: 79). In
total, the United States dropped three times the number of bombs on Vietnam as had
been dropped anywhere during the whole of the Second World War (Pilger, 1990). In
a memorandum to President Johnson in 1967, Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara
wrote: ‘[The] picture of the world’s greatest superpower killing or seriously injuring
1,000 noncombatants a week [his estimate of the human cost of the US bombing

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campaign], while trying to pound a tiny backward nation into submission on an issue
whose merits are hotly disputed, is not pretty’ (quoted in Martin, 1993: 19–20). This
makes very unconvincing Bush’s claim that the United States fought the war with one
hand tied behind its back.
A second example of the consumption of Hollywood’s Vietnam is provided by the
comments of American Vietnam veterans. As Marita Sturken observes, ‘Some Vietnam
veterans say they have forgotten where some of their memories came from – their own
experiences, documentary photographs, or Hollywood movies?’ (1997: 20). For example,
Vietnam veteran William Adams makes this telling point:
When Platoon was first released, a number of people asked me, ‘Was the war really
like that?’ I never found an answer, in part because, no matter how graphic and
realistic, a movie is after all a movie, and war is only like itself. But I also failed to find
an answer because what ‘really’ happened is now so thoroughly mixed up in my
mind with what has been said about what happened that the pure experience is no
longer there. This is odd, even painful, in some ways. But it is also testimony to the
way our memories work. The Vietnam War is no longer a definite event so much
as it is a collective and mobile script in which we continue to scrawl, erase, rewrite
our conflicting and changing view of ourselves (quoted in Sturken, 1997: 86).
Similarly, academic and Vietnam veteran Michael Clark writes of how the ticker-tape
welcome home parade for Vietnam veterans staged in New York in 1985, together with
the media coverage of the parade and the Hollywood films which seemed to provide
the context for the parade, had worked together to produce a particular memory of the
war – a memory with potentially deadly effects:
they had constituted our memory of the war all along . . . [They] healed over the
wounds that had refused to close for ten years with a balm of nostalgia, and transformed
guilt and doubt into duty and pride. And with a triumphant flourish [they]
offered us the spectacle of [their] most successful creation, the veterans who will
fight the next war (Clark, 1991: 180).
Moreover, as Clark is at pains to stress, ‘the memory of Vietnam has ceased to be a
point of resistance to imperialist ambitions and is now invoked as a vivid warning to
do it right next time’ (206). These concerns were fully justified by Bush’s triumphalism
as the end of the first Gulf War, when he boasted, as if the war had been fought for no
other reason than to overcome a traumatic memory, ‘By God, we’ve kicked the Vietnam
Syndrome once and for all’ (quoted in Franklin, 1993: 177). Echoing these comments,
the New York Times (2 December 1993) featured an article with the title, ‘Is the Vietnam
Syndrome Dead? Happily, It’s Buried in the Gulf’. Vietnam, the sign of American loss
and division had been buried in the sands of the Persian Gulf. Kicking the Vietnam
Syndrome (with the help of Hollywood’s Vietnam) had supposedly liberated a nation
from old ghosts and doubts; had made America once again strong, whole and ready for
the next war.

Anti-racism and cultural studies
Anti-racism and cultural studies 179
As was noted with both feminist and Marxist approaches to popular culture, discussions
of ‘race’ and representation inevitably, and quite rightly, involve an ethical imperative
to condemn the deeply inhuman discourses of racism. With this in mind, I want
to end this section with two quotations, followed by a brief discussion and another
quotation. The first quotation is from Stuart Hall and the second from Paul Gilroy.
[T]he work that cultural studies has to do is to mobilise everything that it can find
in terms of intellectual resources in order to understand what keeps making the
lives we live, and the societies we live in, profoundly and deeply antihumane in
their capacity to live with difference. Cultural studies’ message is a message for academics
and intellectuals but, fortunately, for many other people as well. ...I am
convinced that no intellectual worth his or her salt, and no university that wants
to hold up its head in the face of the twenty-first century, can afford to turn dispassionate
eyes away from the problems of race and ethnicity that beset our world
(Hall, 1996e: 343).
We need to know what sorts of insight and reflection might actually help increasingly
differentiated societies and anxious individuals to cope successfully with the
challenges involved in dwelling comfortably in proximity to the unfamiliar without
becoming fearful and hostile. We need to consider whether the scale upon
which sameness and difference are calculated might be altered productively so that
the strangeness of strangers goes out of focus and other dimensions of basic sameness
can be acknowledged and made significant. We also need to consider how a
deliberate engagement with the twentieth century’s history of suffering might furnish
resources for the peaceful accommodation of otherness in relation to fundamental
commonality. . . . [That is,] namely that human beings are ordinarily far
more alike than they are unalike, that most of the time we can communicate with
each other, and that the recognition of mutual worth, dignity, and essential similarity
imposes restrictions on how we can behave if we wish to act justly (Gilroy
2004: 3–4).
The work of cultural studies, like that of all reasonable intellectual traditions, is to
intellectually, and by example, help to defeat racism, and by so doing, help to bring
into being a world in which the term ‘race’ is little more than a long disused historical
category, signifying in the contemporary nothing more than the human race. However,
as Gilroy observed in 1987, and, unfortunately, still the case more than twenty years
later, until that moment arrives,
‘Race’ must be retained as an analytic category not because it corresponds to any
biological or epistemological absolutes, but because it refers investigation to the
power that collective identities acquire by means of their roots in tradition. These

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identities, in the forms of white racism and black resistance, are the most volatile
political forces in Britain today (2002: 339).
Further reading
Storey, John (ed.), Cultural Theory and Popular Culture: A Reader, 4th edition, Harlow:
Pearson Education, 2009. This is the companion volume to this book. It contains
examples of most of the work discussed here. This book and the companion Reader
are supported by an interactive website (www.pearsoned.co.uk/storey). The website
has links to other useful sites and electronic resources.
Baker, Houston A. Jr, Manthia Diawara and Ruth H. Lindeborg (eds), Black British
Cultural Studies: A Reader, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996. A very interesting
collection of essays.
Dent, Gina (ed.), Black Popular Culture, Seattle: Bay Press, 1992. A very useful collection
of essays.
Dittmar, Linda and Michaud, Gene (eds), From Hanoi To Hollywood: The Vietnam War
in American Film, New Brunswick and London: Rutgers University Press, 1990. The
best collection of work on Hollywood’s Vietnam.
Fryer, Peter, Staying Power: The History of Black People in Britain, London: Pluto, 1984.
A brilliant book.
Gandhi, Leela, Postcolonial Theory: A Critical Introduction, Edinburgh: Edinburgh
University Press, 1998. A good introduction to post-colonial theory.
Gilroy, Paul, There Ain’t No Black in the Union Jack, London: Routledge, 1987/2002.
One of the classic cultural studies encounters with ‘race’.
Gilroy, Paul, The Black Atlantic, London: Verso, 1993. A brilliant argument against
‘cultural absolutism’.
Williams, Patrick and Laura Chrisman (eds), Colonial Discourse and Post-Colonial Theory:
A Reader, Harlow: Prentice Hall, 1993. An interesting collection of essays on postcolonial
theory.

9 Postmodernism
The postmodern condition
Postmodernism is a term current inside and outside the academic study of popular culture.
It has entered discourses as different as pop music journalism and Marxist debates
on the cultural conditions of late or multinational capitalism. As Angela McRobbie
(1994) observes,
Postmodernism has entered into a more diverse number of vocabularies more
quickly than most other intellectual categories. It has spread outwards from the
realms of art history into political theory and onto the pages of youth culture
magazines, record sleeves, and the fashion pages of Vogue. This seems to me to
indicate something more than the mere vagaries of taste (13).
She also suggests that ‘the recent debates on postmodernism possess both a positive
attraction and a usefulness to the analyst of popular culture’ (15). What is certainly the
case is that as a concept postmodernism shows little sign of slowing down its coloniallike
expansion. Here is Dick Hebdige’s (1988) list of the ways in which the term has
been used:
When it becomes possible for people to describe as ‘postmodern’ the decor of a
room, the design of a building, the diegesis of a film, the construction of a record,
or a ‘scratch’ video, a television commercial, or an arts documentary, or the ‘intertextual’
relations between them, the layout of a page in a fashion magazine or critical
journal, an anti-teleological tendency within epistemology, the attack on the
‘metaphysics of presence’, a general attenuation of feeling, the collective chagrin
and morbid projections of a post-War generation of baby boomers confronting
disillusioned middle age, the ‘predicament’ of reflexivity, a group of rhetorical
tropes, a proliferation of surfaces, a new phase in commodity fetishism, a fascination
for images, codes and styles, a process of cultural, political, or existential fragmentation
and/or crisis, the ‘de-centring’ of the subject, an ‘incredulity towards
metanarratives’, the replacement of unitary power axes by a plurality of power/
discourse formations, the ‘implosion of meaning’, the collapse of cultural hierarchies,

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the dread engendered by the threat of nuclear self-destruction, the decline of the
university, the functioning and effects of the new miniaturised technologies, broad
societal and economic shifts into a ‘media’, ‘consumer’ or ‘multinational’ phase, a
sense (depending on who you read) of ‘placelessness’ or the abandonment of
placelessness (‘critical regionalism’) or (even) a generalised substitution of spatial
for temporal coordinates – when it becomes possible to describe all these things as
‘postmodern’ . . . then it’s clear we are in the presence of a buzzword (2009: 429).
For the purposes of this discussion I will, with the exception of some necessary theoretical
exposition, consider postmodernism only as it relates to the study of popular
culture. To facilitate this I will focus on the development of postmodern theory from
its beginnings in the United States and Britain in the late 1950s and early 1960s,
through its theorization in the work of Jean-François Lyotard, Jean Baudrillard and
Fredric Jameson. This will be followed by a discussion of two examples of postmodern
culture: pop music and television. The chapter will conclude with a discussion of three
more general aspects of postmodernism: the collapse of absolute standards of value,
the culture of globalization, and convergence culture.
Postmodernism in the 1960s
Although the term ‘postmodern’ had been in cultural circulation since the 1870s (Best
and Kellner, 1991), it is only in the late 1950s and 1960s that we see the beginnings of
what is now understood as postmodernism. In the work of Susan Sontag (1966) and
Leslie Fiedler (1971) we encounter the celebration of what Sontag calls a ‘new sensibility’
(1966: 296). It is in part a sensibility in revolt against the canonization of modernism’s
avant-garde revolution; it attacks modernism’s official status, its canonization
in the museum and the academy, as the high culture of the modern capitalist world. It
laments the passing of the scandalous and bohemian power of modernism, its ability
to shock and disgust the middle class. Instead of outraging from the critical margins of
bourgeois society, the work of Pablo Picasso, James Joyce, T.S. Eliot, Virginia Woolf,
Bertolt Brecht, Igor Stravinsky and others, had not only lost the ability to shock and
disturb, but also become central, classical: in a word – canonized. Modernist culture
has become bourgeois culture. Its subversive power has been drained by the academy
and the museum. It is now the canon against which an avant-garde must struggle. As
Fredric Jameson (1984) points out,
This is surely one of the most plausible explanations for the emergence of postmodernism
itself, since the younger generation of the 1960s will now confront the
formerly oppositional modern movement as a set of dead classics, which ‘weigh
like a nightmare on the brains of the living’, as Marx [1977] once said in a different
context (56).

Jameson (1988) argues that postmodernism was born out of
Postmodernism in the 1960s 183
the shift from an oppositional to a hegemonic position of the classics of modernism,
the latter’s conquest of the university, the museum, the art gallery network
and the foundations, the assimilation . . . of the various high modernisms, into the
‘canon’ and the subsequent attenuation of everything in them felt by our grandparents
to be shocking, scandalous, ugly, dissonant, immoral and antisocial (299).
For the student of popular culture perhaps the most important consequence of the
new sensibility, with its abandonment of ‘the Matthew Arnold notion of culture,
finding it historically and humanly obsolescent’ (Sontag, 1966: 299), is its claim that
‘the distinction between “high” and “low” culture seems less and less meaningful’ (302).
In this sense, it is a sensibility in revolt against what is seen as the cultural elitism of
modernism. Modernism, in spite of the fact that it often quoted from popular culture,
is marked by a deep suspicion of all things popular. Its entry into the museum and the
academy was undoubtedly made easier (regardless of its declared antagonism to ‘bourgeois
philistinism’) by its appeal to, and homologous relationship with, the elitism of
class society. The postmodernism of the late 1950s and 1960s was therefore in part a
populist attack on the elitism of modernism. It signalled a refusal of what Andreas
Huyssen (1986) calls ‘the great divide . . . [a] discourse which insists on the categorical
distinction between high art and mass culture’ (viii). Moreover, according to Huyssen,
‘To a large extent, it is by the distance we have travelled from this “great divide”
between mass culture and modernism that we can measure our own cultural postmodernity’
(57).
The American and British pop art of the 1950s and 1960s presented a clear rejection
of the ‘great divide’. It rejected Arnold’s definition of culture as ‘the best that has been
thought and said’ (see Chapter 2), preferring instead Williams’s social definition of
culture as ‘a whole way of life’ (see Chapter 3). British pop art dreamed of America
(seen as the home of popular culture) from the grey deprivation of 1950s Britain. As
Lawrence Alloway, the movement’s first theorist, explains,
The area of contact was mass produced urban culture: movies, advertising, science
fiction, pop music. We felt none of the dislike of commercial culture standard
among most intellectuals, but accepted it as a fact, discussed it in detail, and consumed
it enthusiastically. One result of our discussions was to take Pop culture out
of the realm of ‘escapism’, ‘sheer entertainment’, ‘relaxation’, and to treat it with
the seriousness of art (quoted in Frith and Horne, 1987: 104).
Andy Warhol was also a key figure in the theorizing of pop art. Like Alloway, he
refuses to take seriously the distinction between commercial and non-commercial art.
He sees ‘commercial art as real art and real art as commercial art’ (109). He claims that
‘“real” art is defined simply by the taste (and wealth) of the ruling class of the period.
This implies not only that commercial art is just as good as “real” art – its value simply
being defined by other social groups, other patterns of expenditure’ (ibid.). We can

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of course object that Warhol’s merging of high and popular is a little misleading.
Whatever the source of his ideas and his materials, once located in an art gallery the
context locates them as art and thus high culture. John Rockwell argues that this was
not the intention or the necessary outcome. Art, he argues, is what you perceive as art:
‘A Brillo box isn’t suddenly art because Warhol puts a stacked bunch of them in a
museum. But by putting them there he encourages you to make your every trip to the
supermarket an artistic adventure, and in so doing he has exalted your life. Everybody’s
an artist if they want to be’ (120).
Huyssen (1986) claims that the full impact of the relationship between pop art and
popular culture can only be fully understood when located within the larger cultural
context of the American counterculture and the British underground scene: ‘Pop in the
broadest sense was the context in which a notion of the postmodern first took shape,
and from the beginning until today, the most significant trends within postmodernism
have challenged modernism’s relentless hostility to mass culture’ (188). In this way,
then, postmodernism can be said to have been at least partly born out of a generational
refusal of the categorical certainties of high modernism. The insistence on an absolute
distinction between high and popular culture came to be regarded as the ‘un-hip’
assumption of an older generation. One sign of this collapse was the merging of pop
art and pop music. For example, Peter Blake designed The Beatles’ Sergeant Pepper’s
Lonely Hearts Club Band album; Richard Hamilton designed their ‘white album’; Andy
Warhol designed the Rolling Stones’ album Sticky Fingers. Similarly, we could cite the
new seriousness emerging in pop music itself, most evident in the work of performers
such as Bob Dylan and The Beatles; there is a new seriousness in their work and their
work is taken seriously in a way unknown before in considerations of pop music.
Huyssen also detects a clear relationship between the American postmodernism of
the 1960s and certain aspects of an earlier European avant-garde; seeing the American
counterculture – its opposition to the war in Vietnam, its support for black civil rights,
its rejection of the elitism of high modernism, its birthing of the second wave of
feminism, the welcome it gave to the gay liberation movement, its cultural experimentalism,
its alternative theatre, its happenings, its love-ins, its celebration of the everyday,
its psychedelic art, its acid rock, its ‘acid perspectivism’ (Hebdige, 2009) – ‘as the
closing chapter in the tradition of avantgardism’ (Huyssen, 1986: 195).
By the late 1970s the debate about postmodernism crossed the Atlantic. The next
three sections will consider the responses of two French cultural theorists to the debate
on the ‘new sensibility’, before returning to America and Fredric Jameson’s account of
postmodernism as the cultural dominant of late capitalism.
Jean-François Lyotard
Jean-François Lyotard’s (1984) principal contribution to the debate on postmodernism
is The Postmodern Condition, published in France in 1979, and translated into English

Jean-François Lyotard 185
in 1984. The influence of this book on the debate has been enormous. In many
respects it was this book that introduced the term ‘postmodernism’ into academic
circulation.
For Lyotard the postmodern condition is marked by a crisis in the status of knowledge
in Western societies. This is expressed as an ‘incredulity towards metanarratives’
and what he calls ‘the obsolescence of the metanarrative apparatus of legitimation’
(xxiv). What Lyotard is referring to is the supposed contemporary collapse or widespread
rejection of all overarching and totalizing frameworks that seek to tell universal
stories (‘metanarratives’): Marxism, liberalism, Christianity, for example. According to
Lyotard, metanarratives operate through inclusion and exclusion, as homogenizing
forces, marshalling heterogeneity into ordered realms, silencing and excluding other
discourses, other voices in the name of universal principles and general goals. Postmodernism
is said to signal the collapse of all metanarratives with their privileged truth
to tell, and to witness instead the increasing sound of a plurality of voices from the
margins, with their insistence on difference, on cultural diversity, and the claims of
heterogeneity over homogeneity. 40
Lyotard’s particular focus is on the status and function of scientific discourse and
knowledge. Science is important for Lyotard because of the role assigned to it by the
Enlightenment. 41 Its task, through the accumulation of scientific knowledge, is to play
a central role in the gradual emancipation of humankind. In this way, science assumes
the status of a metanarrative, organizing and validating other narratives on the royal
road to human liberation. However, Lyotard claims that since the Second World War,
the legitimating force of science’s status as a metanarrative has waned considerably.
It is no longer seen to be slowly making progress on behalf of humankind towards
absolute knowledge and absolute freedom. It has lost its way – its ‘goal is no longer
truth, but performativity’ (46). Similarly, higher education is ‘called upon to create
skills, and no longer ideals’ (48). Knowledge is no longer seen as an end in itself, but
as a means to an end. Like science, education will be judged by its performativity; and
as such it will be increasingly shaped by the demands of power. No longer will it
respond to the question, ‘Is it true?’ It will hear only, ‘What use is it?’ ‘How much is
it worth?’ and ‘Is it saleable?’ (51). Postmodern pedagogy would teach how to use
knowledge as a form of cultural and economic capital without recourse to concern or
anxiety about whether what is taught is true or false.
Before leaving Lyotard, it is worth noting his own less than favourable response to
the changed status of culture. The popular culture (‘contemporary general culture’) of
the postmodern condition is for Lyotard an ‘anything goes’ culture, a culture of ‘slackening’,
where taste is irrelevant, and money the only sign of value (79). The only relief
is Lyotard’s view that postmodernist culture is not the end of the much superior culture
of modernism, but the sign of the advent of a new modernism. Postmodernism is
that which breaks with one modernism to form a new modernism: ‘A work can
become modern only if it is first postmodern. Postmodernism thus understood is not
modernism at its end but in the nascent state, and this state is constant’ (ibid.).
Steven Connor (1989) suggests that The Postmodern Condition may be read ‘as a
disguised allegory of the condition of academic knowledge and institutions in the

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contemporary world’ (41). Lyotard’s ‘diagnosis of the postmodern condition is, in one
sense, the diagnosis of the final futility of the intellectual’ (ibid.). Lyotard is himself
aware of what he calls the contemporary intellectual’s ‘negative heroism’. Intellectuals
have, he argues, been losing their authority since ‘the violence and critique mounted
against the academy during the sixties’ (quoted in Connor, 1989: 41). As Iain
Chambers (1988) observes,
the debate over postmodernism can . . . be read as the symptom of the disruptive
ingression of popular culture, its aesthetics and intimate possibilities, into a previously
privileged domain. Theory and academic discourses are confronted by the
wider, unsystemized, popular networks of cultural production and knowledge. The
intellectual’s privilege to explain and distribute knowledge is threatened; his
authority, for it is invariably ‘his’, redimensionalized. This in part explains both the
recent defensiveness of the modernist, particularly Marxist, project, and the cold
nihilism of certain notorious strands in postmodernism (216).
Angela McRobbie (1994) claims that postmodernism has enfranchised a new body
of intellectuals: ‘the coming into being of those whose voices were historically
drowned out by the (modernist) metanarratives of mastery, which were in turn both
patriarchal and imperialist’ (15). Moreover, as Kobena Mercer (1994) points out,
While the loudest voices in the culture announced nothing less than the end of
everything of any value, the emerging voices, practices and identities of dispersed
African, Caribbean and Asian peoples crept in from the margins of postimperial
Britain to dislocate commonplace certainties and consensual ‘truths’ and thus
open up new ways of seeing, and understanding, the peculiarities of living in the
twilight of an historic interregnum in which ‘the old is dying and the new cannot
be born’ [Gramsci,1971] (Mercer, 1994: 2).
Jean Baudrillard
Jean Baudrillard, according to Best and Kellner (1991), ‘has achieved guru status
throughout the English speaking world’ (109). They claim that ‘Baudrillard has
emerged as one of the most high profile postmodern theorists’ (111). His presence has
not been confined to the world of academia; articles and interviews have appeared in
many popular magazines.
Baudrillard claims that we have reached a stage in social and economic development
in which ‘it is no longer possible to separate the economic or productive realm from
the realms of ideology or culture, since cultural artefacts, images, representations, even
feelings and psychic structures have become part of the world of the economic’
(Connor, 1989: 51). This is partly explained, Baudrillard argues, by the fact that there

Jean Baudrillard 187
has been a historical shift in the West, from a society based on the production of things
to one based on the production of information. In For a Critique of the Political Economy
of the Sign, he describes this as ‘the passage from a metallurgic into a semiurgic society’
(1981: 185). However, for Baudrillard, postmodernism is not simply a culture of the
sign: rather it is a culture of the ‘simulacrum’.
A simulacrum is an identical copy without an original. In Chapter 4, we examined
Benjamin’s claim that mechanical reproduction had destroyed the ‘aura’ of the work of
art; Baudrillard argues that the very distinction between original and copy has itself
now been destroyed. He calls this process ‘simulation’. This idea can be demonstrated
with reference to CDs and films. For example, when someone buys a copy of Steve
Earle’s The Revolution Starts Now, it makes little sense to speak of having purchased the
original. Similarly, it would make no sense for someone having seen The Eternal
Sunshine of the Spotless Mind in Newcastle to be told by someone having seen the film
in Shanghai or Berlin that he had seen the original and she had not. Both would have
witnessed an exhibition of a copy without an original. In both cases, film and CD, we
see or hear a copy without an original. A film is a construction made from editing
together film footage shot in a different sequence and at different times. In the same
way, a music recording is a construction made from editing together sounds recorded
in a different sequence and at different times.
Baudrillard (1983) calls simulation ‘the generation by models of a real without
origins or reality: a hyperreal’ (2). Hyperrealism, he claims, is the characteristic mode
of postmodernity. In the realm of the hyperreal, the distinction between simulation
and the ‘real’ implodes; the ‘real’ and the imaginary continually collapse into each
other. The result is that reality and simulation are experienced as without difference –
operating along a roller-coaster continuum. Simulations can often be experienced as
more real than the real itself – ‘even better than the real thing’ (U2). Think of the way
in which Apocalypse Now has become the mark against which to judge the realism of
representations of America’s war in Vietnam. Asking if it has the ‘look’ of Apocalypse
Now is virtually the same as asking if it is realistic.
The evidence for hyperrealism is said to be everywhere. For example, we live in a
society in which people write letters to characters in soap operas, making them offers
of marriage, sympathizing with their current difficulties, offering them new accommodation,
or just writing to ask how they are coping with life. Television villains are
regularly confronted in the street and warned about the possible future consequences
of not altering their behaviour. Television doctors, television lawyers and television
detectives regularly receive requests for advice and help. I saw an American tourist on
television enthusing about the beauty of the British Lake District. Searching for suitable
words of praise, he said, ‘It’s just like Disneyland.’ In the early 1990s the Northumbria
police force introduced ‘cardboard police cars’ in an attempt to keep motorists within
the law. I recently visited an Italian restaurant in Morpeth in which a painting of
Marlon Brando as the ‘Godfather’ is exhibited as a mark of the restaurant’s genuine
Italianicity. Visitors to New York can do tours which bus them around the city, not as
‘itself’ but as it appears in Sex and the City. The riots, following the acquittal of the four
Los Angeles police officers captured on video physically assaulting the black motorist

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Rodney King, were headlined in two British newspapers as ‘LA Lawless’, and in another
as ‘LA War’ – the story anchored not by a historical reference to similar disturbances in
Watts, Los Angeles in 1965, or to the implications of the words – ‘No justice no peace’
– chanted by demonstrators during the riots; the editors chose instead to locate the
story within the fictional world of the American television series LA Law. Baudrillard
calls this ‘the dissolution of TV into life, the dissolution of life into TV’ (55). Politicians
increasingly play on this, relying on the conviction politics of the ‘photo-opportunity’
and the ‘sound-byte’ in an attempt to win the hearts and minds of voters.
In New York in the mid-1980s the City Arts Workshop and Adopt a Building commissioned
artists to paint murals on a block of abandoned buildings. After consultations
with local residents it was agreed to depict images of what the community lacked:
grocery store, newsstand, laundromat and record shop (Frith and Horne, 1987: 7).
What the story demonstrates is something similar to the Northumbria police story –
the substitution of an image for the real thing: instead of police cars, the illusion of
police cars; instead of enterprise, the illusion of enterprise. Simon Frith and Howard
Horne’s (1987) rather patronizing account of working-class youth out on the weekend
illustrates much the same point:
What made it all real for them: the TAN. The tan courtesy of the sun bed. No one
here had been on a winter break (this is the Tebbit generation); they’d bought their
look across the counter of the hairdresser, the beauty parlour and the keep fit
centre. And so every weekend they gather in dreary, drizzly York and Birmingham
and Crewe and act not as if they were on holiday but as if they were in an advertisement
for holidays. Shivering. A simulation, but for real (182).
The 1998 case of the imprisonment of Coronation Street character Deirdre Rachid
is perhaps a classic example of hyperrealism (see Figure 9.1). The tabloid press not
only covered the story, it campaigned for her release, in much the same way as if this
was an incident from ‘real life’. The Daily Star launched a campaign to ‘Free the
Weatherfield One’, and invited readers to phone or fax them to register their protest.
They also produced a free poster for readers to display in car windows. The Sun asked
readers to sign their petition and invited them to buy specially produced campaign Tshirts.
MPs were described as sympathetic to Deirdre’s plight. The Star quoted Labour
MP Fraser Kemp’s intention to speak to Home Secretary Jack Straw: ‘I will tell the Home
Secretary that there has been an appalling miscarriage of justice. The Home Secretary
should intervene to ensure justice is done and Deidre is released.’ Questions were asked
in the Houses of Parliament. The broadsheets joined in (in the way they always do) by
commenting on the tabloid commentary.
In spite of all this, I think we can say with some confidence that the overwhelming
majority of people who demonstrated their outrage at Deirdre Rachid’s imprisonment
and celebrated her release, did so without believing that she was a real person, who had
been unjustly sent to prison. What she is – and what they knew her to be – is a real
character (and has been for over twenty-five years) in a real soap opera, watched three
times a week by millions of real viewers. It is this that makes her a significant cultural

Figure 9.1 An example of hyperrealism.
Jean Baudrillard 189
figure (and of significant cultural reality). If hyperrealism means anything, it cannot
with any credibility signal a decline in people’s ability to distinguish between fiction
and reality. It is not, as some Baudrillardians seem to want to suggest, that people can
no longer tell the difference between fiction and reality: it is that in some significant
ways the distinction between the two has become less and less important. Why this has
happened is itself an important question. But I do not think that hyperrealism really
supplies us with the answer.
The answer may have something to do with the way in which, as noted by John
Fiske (1994), the ‘postmodern media’ no longer provide ‘secondary representations of
reality; they affect and produce the reality that they mediate’ (xv). He is aware that to
make an event a media event is not simply in the gift of the media. For something to
become a media event it must successfully articulate (in the Gramscian sense discussed
in Chapter 4) the concerns of both public and media. The relationship between media
and public is complex, but what is certain in our ‘postmodern world’ is that all events
that ‘matter’ are media events. He cites the example of the arrest of O.J. Simpson: ‘Local
people watching the chase on TV went to O.J.’s house to be there at the showdown, but
took their portable TVs with them in the knowledge that the live event was not a substitute
for the mediated one but a complement to it. On seeing themselves on their
own TVs, they waved to themselves, for postmodern people have no problem in being
simultaneously and indistinguishably livepeople and mediapeople’ (xxii). The people
who watched the arrest seemed to know implicitly that the media do not simply report
or circulate the news, they produce it. In order to be part of the news of O.J. Simpson’s
arrest it was not enough to be there, one had to be there on television. This suggests
that there is no longer a clear distinction between a ‘real’ event and its media representation.
O.J. Simpson’s trial, for example, cannot be neatly separated into a ‘real’ event
that television then represented as a media event. Anyone who watched the proceedings
unfold on TV knows that the trial was conducted for the television audience as
much as for those present in the court. Without the presence of the cameras this would
have been a very different event indeed.

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Baudrillard’s (1983) own example of hyperrealism is Disneyland: he calls it ‘a
perfect model of all the entangled orders of simulation’ (23). He claims that the success
of Disneyland is not due to its ability to allow Americans a fantasy escape from
reality, but because it allows them an unacknowledged concentrated experience of
‘real’ America.
Disneyland is there to conceal the fact that it is the ‘real’ country, all of ‘real’
America, which is Disneyland (just as prisons are there to conceal the fact that it is
the society in its entirety, in its banal omnipresence, which is carceral). Disneyland
is presented as imaginary in order to make us believe that the rest is real, when
in fact all of Los Angeles and the America surrounding it are no longer real, but of
the order of the hyperreal and of simulation. It is no longer a question of a false
representation of reality (ideology), but of concealing the fact that the real is no
longer real (25).
He explains this in terms of Disneyland’s social ‘function’: ‘It is meant to be an infantile
world, in order to make us believe that the adults are elsewhere, in the “real” world,
and to conceal the fact that real childishness is everywhere’ (ibid.). He argues that the
reporting of ‘Watergate’ operated in much the same way. It had to be reported as a
scandal in order to conceal the fact that it was a commonplace of American political
life. This is an example of what he calls ‘a simulation of a scandal to regenerative ends’
(30). It is an attempt ‘to revive a moribund principle by simulated scandal ...a question
of proving the real by the imaginary; proving truth by scandal’ (36). In the same
way, it could be argued that recent revelations about the activities of certain businessmen
operating in the financial markets of London had to be reported as a scandal in
order to conceal what Baudrillard calls capitalism’s ‘instantaneous cruelty; its incomprehensible
ferocity; its fundamental immorality’ (28–9).
Baudrillard’s general analysis supports Lyotard’s central point about postmodernism,
the collapse of certainty, and the dissolution of the metanarrative of
‘truth’. God, nature, science, the working class, all have lost their authority as centres
of authenticity and truth; they no longer provide the evidence on which to rest one’s
case. The result, he argues, is not a retreat from the ‘real’, but the collapse of the real
into hyperrealism. As he says, ‘When the real is no longer what it used to be, nostalgia
assumes its full meaning. There is a proliferation of myths of origin and signs of reality
...a panic stricken production of the real and the referential’ (12–13). This is an example
of the second historical shift identified by Baudrillard. Modernity was the era of
what Paul Ricoeur calls the ‘hermeneutics of suspicion’, 42 the search for meaning in the
underlying reality of appearances. Marx and Freud are obvious examples of this mode
of thinking (see Chapters 4 and 5). Hyperreality thus calls into question the claims of
representation, both political and cultural. If there is no real behind the appearance,
no beyond or beneath, what can be called with validity a representation? For example,
given this line of argument, Rambo does not represent a type of American thinking on
Vietnam, it is a type of American thinking on Vietnam; representation does not stand
at one remove from reality, to conceal or distort, it is reality. The revolution proposed

y Baudrillard’s theory is a revolution against latent meaning (providing as it does, the
necessary precondition for ideological analysis). Certainly this is how the argument is
often presented. But if we think again about his accounts of Disneyland and Watergate,
does what he has to say about them amount to very much more than a rather traditional
ideological analysis – the discovery of the ‘truth’ behind the appearance?
Baudrillard is ambivalent about the social and cultural changes he discusses. On the
one hand, he appears to celebrate them. On the other, he suggests they signal a form
of cultural exhaustion: all that remains is endless cultural repetition. I suppose the
truth of Baudrillard’s position is a kind of resigned celebration. Lawrence Grossberg
(1988) calls it ‘celebration in the face of inevitability, an embracing of nihilism without
empowerment, since there is no real possibility of struggle’ (175). John Docker
(1994) is more critical:
Baudrillard offers a classic modernist narrative, history as a linear, unidirectional
story of decline. But whereas the early twentieth-century high literary modernists could
dream of an avant-garde or cultural elite that might preserve the values of the past in
the hope of a future seeding and regrowth, no such hope surfaces in Baudrillard’s
vision of a dying, entropic world. It’s not even possible to write in a rational argumentative
form, for that assumes a remaining community of reason (105).
Fredric Jameson
Fredric Jameson 191
Fredric Jameson is an American Marxist cultural critic who has written a number of very
influential essays on postmodernism. Where Jameson differs from other theorists is in
his insistence that postmodernism can best be theorized from within a Marxist or neo-
Marxist framework.
For Jameson postmodernism is more than just a particular cultural style: it is above
all a ‘periodizing concept’ (1985: 113). Postmodernism is ‘the cultural dominant’ of
late or multinational capitalism. His argument is informed by Ernest Mandel’s (1978)
characterization of capitalism’s three-stage development: ‘market capitalism’,
‘monopoly capitalism’ and ‘late or multinational capitalism’. Capitalism’s third stage
‘constitutes . . . the purest form of capital into hitherto uncommodified areas’
(Jameson, 1984: 78). He overlays Mandel’s linear model with a tripartite schema of
cultural development: ‘realism’, ‘modernism’ and ‘postmodernism’ (ibid.). Jameson’s
argument also borrows from Williams’s (1980) influential claim that a given social
formation will always consist of three cultural moments (‘dominant’, ‘emergent’ and
‘residual’). Williams’s argument is that the move from one historical period to another
does not usually involve the complete collapse of one cultural mode and the installation
of another. Historical change may simply bring about a shift in the relative place
of different cultural modes. In a given social formation, therefore, different cultural
modes will exist but only one will be dominant. It is on the basis of this claim that

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Jameson argues that postmodernism is ‘the cultural dominant’ of late or multinational
capitalism (modernism is the residual; it is unclear what is the emergent).
Having established that postmodernism is the cultural dominant within Western
capitalist societies, the next stage for Jameson is to outline the constitutive features of
postmodernism. First, postmodernism is said to be a culture of pastiche: a culture, that
is, marked by the ‘complacent play of historical allusion’ (Jameson, 1988: 105).
Pastiche is often confused with parody; both involve imitation and mimicry. However,
whereas parody has an ‘ulterior motive’, to mock a divergence from convention or a
norm, pastiche is a ‘blank parody’ or ‘empty copy’, which has no sense of the very possibility
of there being a norm or a convention from which to diverge. As he explains,
Pastiche is, like parody, the imitation of a peculiar mask, speech in a dead language:
but it is a neutral practice of such mimicry, without any of parody’s ulterior
motives, amputated of the satiric impulse, devoid of laughter and of any conviction
that alongside the abnormal tongue you have momentarily borrowed, some
healthy linguistic normality still exists. Pastiche is thus blank parody (1984: 65).
Rather than a culture of supposed pristine creativity, postmodern culture is a culture
of quotations; that is, cultural production born out of previous cultural production. 43
It is therefore a culture ‘of flatness or depthlessness, a new kind of superficiality in the
most literal sense’ (60). A culture of images and surfaces, without ‘latent’ possibilities, it
derives its hermeneutic force from other images, other surfaces, the exhausted interplay
of intertextuality. This is the world of postmodern pastiche, ‘a world in which stylistic
innovation is no longer possible, all that is left is to imitate dead styles, to speak through
the masks and with the voices of the styles in the imaginary museum’ (1985: 115).
Jameson’s principal example of postmodern pastiche is what he calls the ‘nostalgia
film’. The category could include a number of films from the 1980s and 1990s: Back
to the Future I and II, Peggy Sue Got Married, Rumble Fish, Angel Heart, Blue Velvet. He
argues that the nostalgia film sets out to recapture the atmosphere and stylistic peculiarities
of America in the 1950s. He claims that ‘for Americans at least, the 1950s
remain the privileged lost object of desire – not merely the stability and prosperity of
a pax Americana, but also the first naive innocence of the countercultural impulses of
early rock and roll and youth gangs’ (1984: 67). He also insists that the nostalgia film
is not just another name for the historical film. This is clearly demonstrated by the fact
that his own list includes Star Wars. Now it might seem strange to suggest that a film
about the future can be nostalgic for the past, but as Jameson (1985) explains, ‘[Star
Wars] is metonymically a . . . nostalgia film . . . it does not reinvent a picture of the past
in its lived totality; rather, by reinventing the feel and shape of characteristic art objects
of an older period’ (116).
Films such as Raiders of the Lost Ark, Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, The Mummy Returns
and Lord of the Rings operate in a similar way to evoke metonymically a sense of the
narrative certainties of the past. Therefore, according to Jameson, the nostalgia film
works in one or two ways: it recaptures and represents the atmosphere and stylistic
features of the past; and it recaptures and represents certain styles of viewing of the

Fredric Jameson 193
past. What is of absolute significance for Jameson is that such films do not attempt to
recapture or represent the ‘real’ past, but always make do with certain myths and stereotypes
about the past. They offer what he calls ‘false realism’, films about other films,
representations of other representations (what Baudrillard calls simulations: see discussion
in the previous section): films ‘in which the history of aesthetic styles displaces
“real” history’ (1984: 67). In this way, history is supposedly effaced by ‘historicism . . .
the random cannibalisation of all the styles of the past, the play of random stylistic
allusion’ (65–6). Here we might cite films like True Romance, Pulp Fiction and Kill Bill.
The failure to be historical relates to a second stylistic feature identified by Jameson,
cultural ‘schizophrenia’. He uses the term in the sense developed by Lacan (see Chapter
5) to signify a language disorder, a failure of the temporal relationship between
signifiers. The schizophrenic experiences time not as a continuum (past–present–
future), but as a perpetual present that is only occasionally marked by the intrusion of
the past or the possibility of a future. The ‘reward’ for the loss of conventional selfhood
(the sense of self as always located within a temporal continuum) is an intensified
sense of the present. Jameson explains it thus:
Note that as temporal continuities break down, the experience of the present
becomes powerfully, overwhelmingly vivid and ‘material’: the world comes before
the schizophrenic with heightened intensity, bearing a mysterious and oppressive
charge of affect, glowing with hallucinatory energy. But what might for us seem a
desirable experience – an increase in our perceptions, a libidinal or hallucinogenic
intensification of our normally humdrum and familiar surroundings – is here felt
as loss, as ‘unreality’ (1985: 120).
To call postmodern culture schizophrenic is to claim that it has lost its sense of history
(and its sense of a future different from the present). It is a culture suffering from ‘historical
amnesia’, locked into the discontinuous flow of perpetual presents. The ‘temporal’
culture of modernism has given way to the ‘spatial’ culture of postmodernism.
Jim Collins (2009) has identified a similar trend in recent cinema, what he calls
an ‘emergent type of genericity’ (470): popular films which ‘quote’ other films, selfconsciously
making reference to and borrowing from different genres of film. What
makes Collins’s position more convincing than Jameson’s, is his insistence on ‘agency’:
the claim that such films appeal to (and help constitute) an audience of knowing
bricoleurs, who take pleasure from this and other forms of bricolage. Moreover, whereas
Jameson argues that such forms of cinema are characterized by a failure to be truly historical,
Peter Brooker and Will Brooker (1997a), following Collins, see instead ‘a new
historical sense . . . the shared pleasure of intertextual recognition, the critical effect of
play with narrative conventions, character and cultural stereotypes, and the power
rather than passivity of nostalgia’ (7). Brooker and Brooker argue that Quentin
Tarantino’s films, for example,
can be seen as reactivating jaded conventions and audience alike, enabling a more
active nostalgia and intertextual exploration than a term such as ‘pastiche’, which

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has nowhere to go but deeper into the recycling factory, implies. Instead of ‘pastiche’,
we might think of ‘rewriting’ or ‘reviewing’ and, in terms of the spectator’s
experience, of the ‘reactivation’ and ‘reconfiguration’ of a given generational ‘structure
of feeling’ within ‘a more dynamic and varied set of histories’ (ibid.).
They point to the ways in which Tarantino’s work presents an ‘aesthetic of recycling . . .
an affirmative “bringing back to life”, a “making new”’ (Brooker and Brooker, 1997b: 56).
According to Collins (2009), part of what is postmodern about Western societies is
the fact that the old is not simply replaced by the new, but is recycled for circulation
together with the new. As he explains, ‘The ever-expanding number of texts and technologies
is both a reflection of and a significant contribution to the “array” – the perpetual
circulation and recirculation of signs that forms the fabric of postmodern
cultural life’ (457). He argues that ‘This foregrounded, hyperconscious intertextuality
reflects changes in terms of audience competence and narrative technique, as well as a
fundamental shift in what constitutes both entertainment and cultural literacy in [postmodern
culture]’ (460). As a consequence of this, Collins argues, ‘Narrative action now
operates at two levels simultaneously – in reference to character adventure and in reference
to a text’s adventures in the array of contemporary cultural production’ (464).
Jameson’s final point, implicit in his claim that postmodernism is the ‘cultural
dominant’ of late or multinational capitalism is the claim that postmodernism is a hopelessly
commercial culture. Unlike modernism, which taunted the commercial culture of
capitalism, postmodernism, rather than resisting, ‘replicates and reproduces – reinforces
– the logic of consumer capitalism’ (1985: 125). It forms the principal part of a process
in which ‘aesthetic production . . . has become integrated into commodity production
generally’ (1984: 56). Culture is no longer ideological, disguising the economic activities
of capitalist society; it is itself an economic activity, perhaps the most important
economic activity of all. Culture’s changed situation can have a significant effect on
cultural politics. No longer is it credible to see culture as ideological representation, an
immaterial reflection of the hard economic reality. Rather, what we now witness is not
just the collapse of the distinction between high and popular culture, but the collapse
of the distinction between the realm of culture and the realm of economic activity.
According to Jameson, when compared to ‘the Utopian “high seriousness” of the
great modernisms’, postmodern culture is marked by an ‘essential triviality’ (85). More
than this, it is a culture that blocks ‘a socialist transformation of society’ (ibid.). Despite
his rejection of a moral critique as inappropriate (‘a category mistake’), and regardless
of his citing of Marx’s insistence on a dialectical approach, which would see postmodern
culture as both a positive and a negative development, his argument drifts inexorably
to the standard Frankfurt School critique of popular culture. The postmodern
collapse of the distinction between high and popular has been gained at the cost of
modernism’s ‘critical space’. The destruction of this critical space is not the result of an
extinction of culture. On the contrary, it has been achieved by what he calls
an ‘explosion’: a prodigious expansion of culture throughout the social realm, to
the point at which everything in our social life from economic value and state

Fredric Jameson 195
power to practices and to the very structure of the psyche itself can be said to have
become ‘cultural’ in some original and as yet unauthorised sense (89).
The thorough ‘culturalization’ or ‘aestheticization’ of everyday life is what marks
postmodernism off from previous socio-cultural moments. Postmodernism is a culture,
which offers no position of ‘critical distance’; it is a culture in which claims
of ‘incorporation’ or ‘co-optation’ make no sense, as there is no longer a critical space
from which to be incorporated or co-opted. This is Frankfurt School pessimism at
its most pessimistic (see Chapter 4). Grossberg (1988) sounds the critical note with
economy:
For Jameson . . . we need new ‘maps’ to enable us to understand the organisation
of space in late capitalism. The masses, on the other hand, remain mute and passive,
cultural dupes who are deceived by the dominant ideologies, and who
respond to the leadership of the critic as the only one capable of understanding
ideology and constituting the proper site of resistance. At best, the masses succeed
in representing their inability to respond. But without the critic, they are unable
even to hear their own cries of hopelessness. Hopeless they are and shall remain,
presumably until someone else provides them with the necessary maps of intelligibility
and critical models of resistance (174).
Although Jameson can be located within the traditions of Frankfurt School pessimism,
there is a sense in which he is not quite as postmodern as one of the School’s
leading figures, Herbert Marcuse. Marcuse’s (1968b) discussion of what he calls
‘affirmative culture’ (the culture or cultural space which emerged with the separation of
‘culture’ and ‘civilization’, discussed in Chapter 2) contains little of Jameson’s enthusiasm
for the historical emergence of culture as a separate sphere. As he explains,
By affirmative culture is meant that culture of the bourgeois epoch, which led in
the course of its own development to the segregation from civilisation of the mental
and spiritual world as an independent realm of value that is also considered
superior to civilisation. Its decisive characteristic is the assertion of a universally
obligatory, eternally better and more valuable world that must be unconditionally
affirmed: a world essentially different from the factual world of the daily struggle
for existence, yet realisable by every individual for himself ‘from within’, without
any transformation of the state of fact (95).
Affirmative culture is a realm we may enter in order to be refreshed and renewed in
order to be able to continue with the ordinary affairs of everyday life. ‘Affirmative’ culture
invents a new reality: ‘a realm of apparent unity and apparent freedom was constructed
within culture in which the antagonistic relations of existence were supposed
to be stabilised and pacified. Culture affirms and conceals the new conditions of social
life’ (96). The promises made with the emergence of capitalism out of feudalism, of a
society to be based on equality, justice and progress, were increasingly relegated from

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the world of the everyday to the realm of ‘affirmative’ culture. Like Marx and Engels
(1957) on religion, Marcuse (1968b) argues that culture makes an unbearable condition
bearable by soothing the pain of existence.
One of the decisive social tasks of affirmative culture is based on this contradiction
between the insufferable mutability of a bad existence and the need for happiness
in order to make such an existence bearable. Within this existence the resolution
can be only illusory. And the possibility of a solution rests precisely on the character
of artistic beauty as illusion. . . . But this illusion has a real effect, producing
satisfaction . . . [in] the service of the status quo (118–24).
Something that produces satisfaction in the service of the status quo does not sound
like something a Marxist would want to regret coming to an end. Moreover, does its
demise really block, as Jameson claims, the transition to a socialist society? It might in
fact be possible to argue just the opposite case.
Ernesto Laclau and Chantal Mouffe (2001) share some of Jameson’s analysis of the
postmodern, but unlike Jameson they recognize the possibility of agency.
Today it is not only as a seller of labour-power that the individual is subordinated
to capital, but also through his or her incorporation into a multitude of other
social relations: culture, free time, illness, education, sex and even death. There is
practically no domain of individual or collective life which escapes capitalists relations.
But this ‘consumer’ society has not led to the end of ideology, as Daniel Bell
announced, nor to the creation of a one-demensional man, as Marcuse feared. On
the contrary, numerous new struggles have expressed resistance against the new
forms of subordination, and this from within the heart of the new society (161).
Laclau and Mouffe also refer to ‘the new cultural forms linked to the expansion of the
means of mass communication. These . . . make possible a new mass culture which . . .
profoundly shake[s] traditional identities. Once again, the effects here are ambiguous,
as along with the undeniable effects of massification and uniformization, this mediabased
culture also contains powerful elements for the subversion of inequalities’ (163).
This does not mean that there has necessarily been an increase in ‘material’ equality.
Nevertheless,
the cultural democratization which is the inevitable consequence of the action of
the media permit the questioning of privileges based upon older forms of status.
Interpellated as equals in their capacity as consumers, even more numerous groups
are impelled to reject the real inequalities which continue to exist. This ‘democratic
consumer culture’ has undoubtedly stimulated the emergence of new struggles
which have played an important part in the rejection of old forms of subordination,
as was the case in the United States with the struggle of the black movement
for civil rights. The phenomenon of the young is particularly interesting, and
it is no cause for wonder they should constitute a new axis for the emergence of

antagonisms. In order to create new necessities, they are increasingly constructed
as a specific category of consumer, which stimulates them to seek a financial autonomy
that society is in no condition to give them (164).
Postmodern pop music
Postmodern pop music 197
A discussion of postmodernism and popular culture might highlight any number of
different cultural texts and practices: for example, television, music video, advertising,
film, pop music, fashion. I have space here to consider only two examples, television
and pop music.
For Jameson (1984) the difference between modernist and postmodernist pop
music is quite clear: The Beatles and The Rolling Stones represent a modernist moment
against which punk rock (The Clash, for example) and new wave (Talking Heads, for
example) can be seen as postmodernist. Andrew Goodwin (1991) has quite correctly
pointed out that Jameson’s compressed time-span solution – pop music culture’s rapid
progression through ‘realism’ (rock’n’roll), ‘modernism’, ‘postmodernism’ – enabling
Jameson to establish a modernist moment against which to mark out a postmodernist
response, is a very difficult argument to sustain. As Goodwin convincingly argues, The
Beatles and The Rolling Stones are as different from each other as together they are different
from The Clash and Talking Heads. In fact, it would be much easier to make an
argument in which the distinction is made between the ‘artifice’ of The Beatles and
Talking Heads and the ‘authenticity’ of The Rolling Stones and The Clash.
Goodwin himself considers a number of ways of seeing pop music and pop music
culture as postmodernist. Perhaps its most cited aspect is the technological developments
that have facilitated the emergence of ‘sampling’. He acknowledges that the parallel
with some postmodern theorizing is interesting and suggestive, but that is all it is
– interesting and suggestive. What is often missed in such claims is the way in which
sampling is used. As he explains, ‘textual incorporation cannot be adequately understood
as “blank parody”. We need categories to add to pastiche, which demonstrate
how contemporary pop opposes, celebrates and promotes the texts it steals from’
(173). We also need to be aware of ‘the historicizing function of sampling technologies
in contemporary pop’ (ibid.), the many ways in which sampling is ‘used to
invoke history and authenticity’ (175). Moreover, in regard to Jameson’s argument
about nostalgia replacing history, ‘it has often been overlooked that the “quoting” of
sounds and styles acts to historicize contemporary culture’ (ibid.). Rap is perhaps the
best example of sampling being used in this way. When asked to name the black means
of cultural expression, the African American cultural theorist Cornel West (2009),
answered, ‘music and preaching’. He went on to say,
rap is unique because it combines the black preacher and the black music tradition,
replacing the liturgical ecclesiastical setting with the African polyrhythms of

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the street. A tremendous articulateness is syncopated with the African drumbeat,
the African funk, into an American postmodernist product: there is no subject
expressing originary anguish here but a fragmented subject, pulling from past and
present, innovatively producing a heterogeneous product. The stylistic combination
of the oral, the literate, and the musical is exemplary . . . it is part and parcel
of the subversive energies of black underclass youth, energies that are forced to take
a cultural mode of articulation because of the political lethargy of American society
(386).
This is a rejection of Jameson’s claim that such work can be dismissed as an example
of postmodern pastiche. The intertextual play of quotations in rap is not the
result of aesthetic exhaustion; these are not the fragments of modernism shored against
aesthetic ruin and cultural decline, but fragments combined to make a voice to be
heard loudly within a hostile culture: the twisting of dismissal and denial into defiance.
Postmodern television
Television, like pop music, does not have a period of modernism to which it can be
‘post’. But, as Jim Collins (1992) points out, television is often seen as the
‘quintessence’ of postmodern culture. This claim can be made on the basis of a number
of television’s textual and contextual features. If we take a negative view of postmodernism,
as the domain of simulations, then television seems an obvious example
of the process – with its supposed reduction of the complexities of the world to an everchanging
flow of depthless and banal visual imagery. If, on the other hand, we take a
positive view of postmodernism, then the visual and verbal practices of television can
be put forward, say, as the knowing play of intertextuality and ‘radical eclecticism’
(Charles Jenks in Collins, 1992: 338), encouraging, and helping to produce, the
‘sophisticated bricoleur’ (Collins, 1992: 337) of postmodern culture. For example, a
television series like Twin Peaks both helps to constitute an audience as bricoleurs and
is watched in turn by an audience who celebrate the programme’s bricolage. According
to Collins,
Postmodernist eclecticism might only occasionally be a preconceived design
choice in individual programs, but it is built into the technologies of media sophisticated
societies. Thus television, like the postmodern subject, must be conceived as
a site – an intersection of multiple, conflicting cultural messages. Only by recognising
this interdependency of bricolage and eclecticism can we come to appreciate
the profound changes in the relationship of reception and production in
postmodern cultures. Not only has reception become another form of meaning
production, but production has increasingly become a form of reception as it
rearticulates antecedent and competing forms of representation (338).

Postmodern television 199
Another divide within the approach to television as postmodern is between textual
and ‘economic’ analysis. Instead of the semiotic sophistication of its intertextual play
and radical eclecticism, television is condemned as hopelessly commercial. Collins
uses Twin Peaks as a means of bringing together the different strands of the relationship
between postmodernism and television. Twin Peaks is chosen because it ‘epitomises the
multiple dimensions of televisual postmodernism’ (341). He argues that the postmodernism
of the television series is the result of a number of interrelated factors:
David Lynch’s reputation as a film maker, the stylistic features of the series, and, finally,
its commercial intertextuality (the marketing of related products: for example, The
Secret Diary of Laura Palmer).
At the economic level, Twin Peaks marks a new era in network television’s view of
the audience. Instead of seeing the audience as an homogeneous mass, the series was
part of a strategy in which the audience is seen as fragmented, consisting of different
segments – stratified by age, class, gender, sexuality, geography, ethnicity and ‘race’ –
each of interest to different advertisers. Mass appeal now involves attempts to intertwine
the different segments to enable them to be sold to different sections of the
advertising market. The significance of Twin Peaks, at least from this perspective, is that
it represents an attempt by American network television to win back affluent sections
of the television audience supposedly lost to cable, cinema and video – in short, the
so-called ‘yuppie’ generation. Collins demonstrates this by addressing the way the
series was promoted. First, there was the intellectual appeal – Lynch as auteur, Twin
Peaks as avant-garde television. This was followed by Twin Peaks as soap opera.
Together the two appeals soon coalesced into a postmodern reading formation in
which the series was ‘valorised as would-be cinema and would-be soap opera’ (345).
Similar marketing techniques have been used to promote many recent television programmes.
The obvious examples are Desperate Housewives, Sex and the City, Six Feet
Under, The Sopranos and Lost.
The marketing of Twin Peaks (and similar television programmes) is undoubtedly
supported and sustained by the polysemic play of Twin Peaks itself. The series is, as
Collins suggests, ‘aggressively eclectic’ (ibid.), not only in its use of conventions from
Gothic horror, police procedural, science fiction and soap opera, but also in the different
ways – from straight to parody – these conventions are mobilized in particular
scenes. Collins also notes the play of ‘tonal variations . . . within and across scenes’
(ibid.). This has led some critics to dismiss Twin Peaks as ‘mere camp’. But it is never
simply camp – it is never simply anything – continually playing with our expectations,
moving the audience, as it does, from moments of parodic distance to moments of
emphatic intimacy. Although this is a known aspect of Lynch’s filmic technique, more
significantly it is also a characteristic ‘reflective of changes in television entertainment
and of viewer involvement in that entertainment’ (347). As Collins explains,
That viewers would take a great deal of pleasure in this oscillation and juxtaposition
is symptomatic of the ‘suspended’ nature of viewer involvement in television
that developed well before the arrival of Twin Peaks. The ongoing oscillation in
discursive register and generic conventions describes not just Twin Peaks but the

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very act of moving up and down the televisual scale of the cable box. While watching
Twin Peaks, viewers may be overtly encouraged to move in and out of an ironic
position, but watching other television soap operas (nighttime or daytime)
involves for many viewers a similar process of oscillation in which emotional
involvement alternates with ironic detachment. Viewing perspectives are no longer
mutually exclusive, but set in perpetual alternation (347–8).
Oscillation in discursive register and generic conventions is a primary factor in many
recent television programmes. Again, the obvious examples are Desperate Housewives,
Sex and the City, Six Feet Under, and The Sopranos. The key point to understand with
regard to Twin Peaks and postmodernism is that what makes the programme different
from other television programmes is not that it produces shifting viewing positions,
but that it ‘explicitly acknowledges this oscillation and the suspended nature of television
viewing. . . . [It] doesn’t just acknowledge the multiple subject positions that
television generates; it recognises that one of the great pleasures of the televisual text is
that very suspension and exploits it for its own sake’ (348).
Umberto Eco (1984) has identified a postmodern sensibility exhibited in an awareness
of what he calls the ‘already said’. He gives the example of a lover who cannot tell
his lover ‘I love you madly’, and says instead: ‘As Barbara Cartland would put it, I love
you madly’ (39). Given that we now live in an increasingly media-saturated world, the
‘already said’ is, as Collins (1992) observes, ‘still being said’ (348). For example, we can
identify this in the way that television, in a effort to fill the space opened up by the
growth in satellite and cable channels, recycles its own accumulated past, and that of
cinema, and broadcasts these alongside what is new in both media. 44 This does not
mean that we must despair in the face of Jameson’s postmodern ‘structure’; rather we
should think in terms of both ‘agency’ and ‘structure’ – which ultimately is always a
question of ‘articulation’ (see Chapter 4). Collins provides this example of different
strategies of articulation:
The Christian Broadcasting Network and Nickelodeon both broadcast series from
the late fifties and early sixties, but whereas the former presents these series as a
model for family entertainment the way it used to be, the latter offers them as fun
for the contemporary family, ‘camped up’ with parodic voice-overs, supergraphics,
reediting designed to deride their quaint vision of American family life, which we
all know never really existed even ‘back then’ (334).
There can be little doubt that similar things are happening in, for example, music,
cinema, advertising, fashion, and in the different lived cultures of everyday life. It is not
a sign that there has been a general collapse of the distinctions people make between,
say, high culture / low culture, past/present, history/nostalgia, fiction/reality; but it is a
sign that such distinctions (first noticed in the 1960s, and gradually more so ever since)
are becoming increasingly less important, less obvious, less taken for granted. But this
does not of course mean that such distinctions cannot be, and are not being, articulated
and mobilized for particular strategies of social distinction. But above all, we

should not take any of these changes at face value; we must always be alert to the what,
why and for whom something is being articulated, and how it can always be articulated
differently, in other contexts (see Chapter 10).
Postmodernism and the pluralism of value
Postmodernism and the pluralism of value 201
Postmodernism has disturbed many of the old certainties surrounding questions of
cultural value. In particular, it has problematized the question of why some texts are
canonized, while others disappear without trace: that is, why only certain texts supposedly
‘pass the test of time’. There are a number of ways to answer this question.
First, we can insist that the texts which are valued and become part of what Williams
calls the ‘selective tradition’ (see Chapter 3) are those which are sufficiently polysemic
to sustain multiple and continuous readings. 45 The problem with this approach is that
it seems to ignore questions of power. It fails to pose the question: ‘Who is doing the
valuing, in what context(s) and with what effects of power?’ In short, it is very difficult
to see how a process, in which only certain people have the power and cultural authority
to ensure the canonical reproduction of texts and practices, can really be described
as simply an effect of a text’s polysemy.
Rather than begin with polysemy, cultural studies would begin with power. Put simply,
a text will survive its moment of production if it is selected to meet the needs and
desires of people with cultural power. Surviving its moment of production makes
it available to meet the (usually different) desires and needs of other generations of
people with cultural power. The selective tradition, as Williams (2009) points out, is
‘governed by many kinds of special interests, including class interests’. Therefore rather
than being a natural repository of what Arnold thought of as ‘the best that has been
thought and said’ (see Chapter 2), it ‘will always tend to correspond to its contemporary
system of interests and values, for it is not an absolute body of work but a continual
selection and interpretation’ (38–9). Particular interests, articulated in specific social
and historical contexts, always inform the selective tradition. In this way, what constitutes
the selective tradition is as much about policing knowledge as it is about organizing
terrains of critical inquiry.
It is not difficult to demonstrate how the selective tradition forms and re-forms in
response to the social and political concerns of those with cultural power. We have
only to think of the impact that, say, feminism, queer theory and post-colonial theory
have had on the study of literature – women writers, gay writers, writers from the
so-called colonial periphery have become a part of the institution of literature, not
because their value has suddenly been recognized in some disinterested sweep of the
field: they are there because power encountered resistance. Even when the selected texts
remain the same, how and why they are valued certainly changes. So much so that
they are hardly the same texts from one historical moment to the next. 46 As the Four
Tops put it, in a slightly different context: ‘It’s the same old song / But with a different

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meaning since you’ve been gone.’ 47 Or to put it in a less danceable discourse, a text is
never really the issuing source of value, but always the site where the construction of
value – variable values – can take place.
Of course, when we ascribe value to a text or practice, we are not (or rarely ever) saying
this is only of value to me; our evaluation always (or usually always) includes the
notion that the text or practice should also be of value to others. The trouble with some
forms of evaluation is that they insist that their community of others is an ideal community,
with absolute cultural authority over all other valuing communities. It is not
that they insist that all others should consume what they value (it is usually better for
‘value’ if they do not), but they do insist on due deference for their judgements and
absolute recognition of their cultural authority to judge (see discussion of the ‘culture
and civilization’ tradition in Chapter 2). 48
The postmodern return to questions of value has witnessed an increased interest in
the work of Pierre Bourdieu (1984). As I pointed out in Chapter 1, Bourdieu argues
that distinctions of ‘culture’ (whether understood as text, practice or way of living) are
a significant aspect in the struggle between dominant and subordinate groups in society.
He shows how arbitrary tastes and arbitrary ways of living are continually transmuted
into legitimate taste and the only legitimate way of life. The consumption of
culture is thus a means to produce and to legitimate social difference, and to secure
social deference.
Bourdieu’s project is to (re-)locate ‘value’ in the world of everyday experience, to
suggest that similar things are happening when I ‘value’ a holiday destination or a particular
mode of dress, as are happening when I ‘value’ a poem by T.S. Eliot or a song
by Otis Redding or a photograph by Cindy Sherman or a piece of music by Gavin
Bryars. Such evaluations are never a simple matter of individual taste; cultural value
operates both to identify and to maintain social difference and sustain social deference.
Distinction is generated by learned patterns of consumption that are internalized as
‘natural’ preferences and interpreted and mobilized as evidence of ‘natural’ competences,
which are, ultimately, used to justify forms of social domination. The cultural
tastes of dominant groups are given institutional form, and then, with deft ideological
sleight of hand, their taste for this institutionalized culture (i.e. their own) is held up
as evidence of their cultural, and, ultimately, their social, superiority. The effect of such
cultural distinction is to produce and reproduce social distinction, social separation
and social hierarchy. It becomes a means of establishing differences between dominated
and dominant groups in society. The production and reproduction of cultural
space thus produces and reproduces social space.
Bourdieu’s purpose is not to prove the self-evident, that different classes have different
lifestyles, different tastes in culture, but to identify and interrogate the processes
by which the making of cultural distinctions secures and legitimates forms of power
and control rooted in economic inequalities. He is interested not so much in the actual
differences, but in how these differences are used by dominant groups as a means
of social reproduction. The much heralded collapse of standards rehearsed (almost
weekly) in the ‘quality’ media, may be nothing more than a perceived sense that the
opportunities to use culture to make and mark social distinction are becoming more

and more difficult to find, as Pavarotti tops the charts, Gorecki outsells most of the acts
on Top of the Pops, and Premier League football is, in many instances, as expensive as,
say, ballet or opera.
Perhaps the most significant thing about postmodernism for the student of popular
culture is the dawning recognition that there is no absolute categorical difference
between high and popular culture. This is not to say that one text or practice might not
be ‘better’ (for what / for whom, etc., must always be decided and made clear) than
another text or practice. But it is to say that there are no longer any easy reference
points, to which we can refer, and which will automatically preselect for us the good
from the bad. Some might regard such a situation (or even the description of such a
situation) with horror – the end of Standards. On the contrary, without easy recourse
to fixed categories of value, it calls for rigorous, if always contingent, standards, if our
task is to separate the good from the bad, the usable from the obsolete, the progressive
from the reactionary. As John Fekete (1987) points out,
By contrast [to modernism], postmodernism may be at last ready – or may, at least,
represent the transition to a readiness – unneurotically, to get on without the
Good-God-Gold Standards, one and all, indeed without any capitalised Standards,
while learning to be enriched by the whole inherited inventory once it is transferred
to the lower case. . . . We need to believe and enact the belief that there are
better and worse ways to live the pluralism of value. To see all cows as the same
colour would truly amount to being lost in the night. But the prospect of learning
to be at ease with limited warranties, and with the responsibility for issuing them,
without the false security of inherited guarantees, is promising for a livelier, more
colourful, more alert, and, one hopes, more tolerant culture that draws enjoyment
from the dappled relations between meaning and value (17).
Fekete’s point is not significantly different from the argument made by Susan Sontag
(1966) at the birth of the postmodern ‘new sensibility’:
The new sensibility is defiantly pluralistic; it is dedicated both to an excruciating
seriousness and to fun and wit and nostalgia. It is also extremely history-conscious;
and the voracity of its enthusiasms (and of the supercession of these enthusiasms)
is very high-speed and hectic. From the vantage point of this new sensibility, the
beauty of a machine or of the solution to a mathematical problem, of a painting
by Jasper Johns, of a film by Jean-Luc Godard, and of the personalities and music
of the Beatles is equally accessible (304).
The global postmodern
The global postmodern 203
One way in which the world is said to be becoming postmodern is in its increasing
globalization. Perhaps the dominant view of globalization, especially in discussions of

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Photo 9.1 The Coca-Colonization of China.
globalization and culture, is to see it as the reduction of the world to an American
‘global village’: a global village in which everyone speaks English with an American
accent, wears Levi jeans and Wrangler shirts, drinks Coca-Cola, eats at McDonald’s,
surfs the net on a computer overflowing with Microsoft software, listens to rock or
country music, watches a mixture of MTV and CNN, Hollywood movies and reruns
of Dallas, and then discusses the prophetically named World Series, while drinking a
bottle of Budweiser and smoking a Marlboro cigarette. According to this scenario, globalization
is the supposed successful imposition of American culture around the globe,
in which the economic success of American capitalism is underpinned by the cultural
work that its commodities supposedly do in effectively destroying indigenous cultures
and imposing an American way of life on ‘local’ populations. Photo 9.1 presents a very
succinct version of this argument. It is a photograph of a sculpture depicting people
entering a Coca-Cola house as Chinese citizens and leaving as little Coca-Cola people.
There are at least three problems with this view of globalization.
The first problem with globalization as cultural Americanization is that it operates
with a very reductive concept of culture: it assumes that ‘economic’ success is the same
as ‘cultural’ imposition. In other words, the recognition of the obvious success of
American companies in placing products in most of the markets of the world is understood
as self-evidently and unproblematically ‘cultural’ success. For example, American
sociologist Herbert Schiller (1979) claims that the ability of American companies to
successfully unload commodities around the globe is producing an American global

The global postmodern 205
capitalist culture. The role of media corporations, he claims, is to make programmes
which ‘provide in their imagery and messagery, the beliefs and perspectives that create
and reinforce their audiences’ attachments to the way things are in the system overall’ (30).
There are two overlapping problems with this position. First, it is simply assumed
that commodities are the same as culture: establish the presence of the former and you
can predict the details of the latter. But as John Tomlinson (1999) points out, ‘if we
assume that the sheer global presence of these goods is in itself token of a convergence
towards a capitalist monoculture, we are probably utilising a rather impoverished concept
of culture – one that reduces culture to its material goods’ (83). It may be the case
that certain commodities are used, made meaningful and valued in ways which promote
American capitalism as a way of life, but this is not something which can be
established by simply assuming that market penetration is the same as cultural or
ideological penetration.
Another problem with this position is that it is an argument that depends on the
claim that commodities have inherent values and singular meanings, which can be
imposed on passive consumers. In other words, the argument operates with a very discredited
account of the flow of influence. It simply assumes that the dominant globalizing
culture will be successfully injected into the weaker ‘local’ culture. That is, it is
assumed that people are the passive consumers of the cultural meanings that supposedly
flow directly and straightforwardly from the commodities they consume. To
think that economic success is the same as cultural success is to work under the
influence of what I will call ‘mode of production determinism’. That is, the argument
that how something is made determines what it can mean or what it is worth (it is
Hollywood, etc., what do you expect?). Such analysis always seems to want to suggest
that ‘agency’ is always overwhelmed by ‘structure’; that consumption is a mere shadow
of production; that audience negotiations are fictions, merely illusory moves in a game
of economic power. Moreover, ‘mode of production determinism’ is a way of thinking
which seeks to present itself as a form of radical cultural politics. But all too often this
is a politics in which attacks on power are rarely little more than self-serving revelations
about how ‘other people’ are always ‘cultural dupes’ (see Chapters 4 and 10).
A second problem with globalization as cultural Americanization is that it operates
with a limited concept of the ‘foreign’. First of all, it works with the assumption that
what is foreign is always a question of national difference. But what is foreign can
equally be a question of class, ethnicity, gender, sexuality, generation, or any other
marker of social difference (see Figure 9.2). Moreover, what is foreign in terms of being
imported from another country may be less foreign than differences already established
by, say, class or generation. Furthermore, the imported foreign may be used
against the prevailing power relations of the ‘local’ (see Photo 9.2 and Figure 9.3). This
is probably what is happening with the export of hip hop. What are we to make of the
global success of ‘hip hop’? Are, for example, South African, French, Chinese or British
rappers (and fans of hip hop) the victims of American cultural imperialism? Are they
the cultural dupes of a transnational music industry? A more interesting approach
would be to look at how South Africans, French, Chinese or British youth have ‘appropriated’
hip hop; used it to meet their local needs and desires. In other words, a more

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Figure 9.2 The ‘foreign’.
Photo 9.2 ‘Imagine there’s no countries’.
interesting approach would be one that looked at what they do with it, rather than only
what it supposedly does to them. American culture is worked on; it is used to make
space within what is perceived as the dominant national culture.
Another problem with this very limited notion of the foreign is that it is always
assumed that the ‘local’ is the same as the national. But within the national, there
may well be many ‘locals’. Moreover, there may be considerable conflict between them,
and between them and the dominant culture (i.e. ‘the national’). Globalization can

Figure 9.3 ‘Imagine there’s no countries’.
The global postmodern 207
therefore both help confirm and help undo local cultures; it can keep one in place and
it can make one suddenly feel out of place. For example, in 1946, addressing a conference
of Spanish clerics, the Archbishop of Toledo wondered ‘[h]ow to tackle’ what
he called ‘woman’s growing demoralization – caused largely by American customs
introduced by the cinematograph, making the young woman independent, breaking
up the family, disabling and discrediting the future consort and mother with exotic
practices that make her less womanly and destabilize the home’ (quoted in Tomlinson,
1997: 123). Spanish women may have taken a different view.
A third problem with the model of globalization as cultural Americanization is that
it assumes that American culture is monolithic. Even in the more guarded accounts of
globalization it is assumed that we can identify something singular called American
culture. George Ritzer (1999), for example, makes the claim that ‘while we will continue
to see global diversity, many, most, perhaps eventually all of those cultures will
be affected by American exports: America will become virtually everyone’s “second
culture”’ (89).
Globalization as cultural Americanization assumes that cultures can be lined up as
distinct monolithic entities, hermetically sealed from one another until the fatal
moment of the globalizing injection. Against such a view, Jan Nederveen Pieterse
(1995) argues that globalization, as cultural Americanization,
overlooks the countercurrents – the impact non-Western cultures have been making
on the West. It downplays the ambivalence of the globalising momentum and
ignores the role of local reception of Western culture – for example the indigenization
of Western elements. It fails to see the influence non-Western cultures
have been exercising on one another. It has no room for crossover culture – as in
the development of ‘third cultures’ such as world music. It overrates the homogeneity
of Western culture and overlooks the fact that many of the standards

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exported by the West and its cultural industries themselves turn out to be of culturally
mixed character if we examine their cultural lineages (53).
Moreover, the idea of globalization as the imposition of a singular and monolithic
American culture (a middle-class culture of whiteness) begins to look very different,
less monolithic, when we consider, for example, the fact that America has the third
largest Hispanic population in the world. In addition, it is estimated that by 2076, the
tricentennial of the American Revolution, people of Native American, African, Asian or
Latin descent, will make up the majority of its population.
Hall (1996b) has written that postmodernism ‘is about how the world dreams itself
to be American’ (132). If this is the case, we may be all dreaming of many different
Americas, depending on which bits of America we choose to consume. For example,
if the material for our dreams is gathered from American popular music, the geography
and geometry, the values, images, myths, styles, will be different depending on
whether, for example, it is blues, country, dance, folk, heavy metal, jazz, rap, rock-
’n’roll, sixties rock, or soul. At the very least, each genre of music would produce
different political articulations, in terms of class, gender, race, ethnicity, sexuality,
and generation. To recognize this is to recognize that cultures, even powerful cultures
like that of the USA, are never monolithic. As Said (1993) observes, ‘[A]ll cultures are
involved in one another; none is single and pure, all are hybrid, heterogeneous,
extraordinarily differentiated, and unmonolithic’ (xxix). Moreover,
[n]o one today is purely one thing. Labels like Indian, or woman, or Muslim, or
American are now [no] more than starting points, which if followed into actual
experience for only a moment are quickly left behind. Imperialism consolidated
the mixture of cultures and identities on a global scale. But its worst and most paradoxical
gift was to allow people to believe that they were only, mainly exclusively,
White, or Black, or Western, or Oriental (407–8).
Globalization is much more complex and contradictory than the simple imposition
of, say, American culture. It is certainly true that we can travel around the world while
never being too far from signs of American commodities. What is not true, however,
is that commodities equal culture. Globalization involves the ebb and flow of both
homogenizing and heterogenizing forces, the meeting and the mingling of the ‘local’
and the ‘global’. To understand this in a different way: what is exported always finds
itself in the context of what already exists. That is, exports become imports, as they are
incorporated into the indigenous culture. This can in turn impact on the cultural production
of the ‘local’. Ien Ang (1996) gives the example of the Cantonese Kung Fu
movies that revitalized the declining Hong Kong film industry. The films are a mixture
of ‘Western’ narratives and Cantonese values. As she explains:
Culturally speaking, it is hard to distinguish here between the ‘foreign’ and the
‘indigenous’, the ‘imperialist’ and the ‘authentic’: what has emerged is a highly distinctive
and economically viable hybrid cultural form in which the global and the

The global postmodern 209
local are inextricably intertwined, in turn leading to the modernized reinvigoration
of a culture that continues to be labelled and widely experienced as ‘Cantonese’. In
other words, what counts as ‘local’ and therefore ‘authentic’ is not a fixed content,
but subject to change and modification as a result of the domestication of
imported cultural goods (154–5).
Globalization may be making the world smaller, generating new forms of cultural
hybridity, but it is also bringing into collision and conflict different ways of making the
world mean. While some people may celebrate the opening up of new global ‘routes’,
other people may resist globalization in the name of local ‘roots’. Resistance in the
form of a reassertion of the local against the flow of the global can be seen in the
increase in religious fundamentalism (Christianity, Hinduism, Islam and Judaism) and
the re-emergence of nationalism, most recently in the former Soviet Union and the former
Yugoslavia. A more benign example of the insistence on ‘roots’ is the explosive
growth in family history research in Europe and America. In all of these examples,
globalization may be driving the search for ‘roots’ in a more secure past in the hope of
stabilizing identities in the present.
Globalization is a complex process, producing contradictory effects, in changing
relations of culture and power. One way to understand the processes of globalization
is in terms of Gramsci’s concept of hegemony. From the perspective of the post-Marxist
cultural studies appropriation of hegemony theory, cultures are neither something
‘authentic’ (spontaneously emerging from ‘below’), nor something which is simply
imposed from ‘above’, but a ‘compromise equilibrium’ (Gramsci, 1971: 161) between
the two; a contradictory mix of forces from both ‘below’ and ‘above’; both ‘commercial’
and ‘authentic’; both ‘local’ and ‘global’; marked by both ‘resistance’ and ‘incorporation’,
involving both ‘structure’ and ‘agency’. Globalization can also be seen in this
way. As Hall (1991) observes:
what we usually call the global, far from being something which, in a systematic
fashion, rolls over everything, creating similarity, in fact works through particularity,
negotiates particular spaces, particular ethnicities, works through mobilizing
particular identities and so on. So there is always a dialectic, between the local and
the global (62).
Hegemony is a complex and contradictory process; it is not the same as injecting
people with ‘false consciousness’. It is certainly not explained by the adoption of the
assumption that ‘hegemony is prepackaged in Los Angeles, shipped out to the global
village, and unwrapped in innocent minds’ (Liebes and Katz, 1993: xi). A better way of
understanding the processes of globalization is one that takes seriously, not just the
power of global forces, but also those of the local. This is not to deny power but to insist
that a politics in which ‘local’ people are seen as mute and passive victims of processes
they can never hope to understand, a politics which denies agency to the vast majority,
or at best only recognizes certain activities as signs of agency, is a politics which can
exist without causing too much trouble to the prevailing structures of global power.

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Convergence culture
Another aspect of the postmodern is convergence culture, ‘where old and new media
collide, where grassroots and corporate media intersect, where the power of the media
producer and the power of the media consumer interact in unpredictable ways’ (Henry
Jenkins, 2006: 2). Convergence involves the flow of media content across a range of
different platforms. This is not simply a matter of new technologies but a process that
requires the active participation of consumers.
Convergence culture, like most popular culture discussed in this book, is a site
of struggle and negotiation. It cannot be explained and understood as something
imposed from ‘above’ or as something spontaneously emerging from ‘below’, but as a
complex and contradictory combination of both forces. As Jenkins observes,
Convergence . . . is both a top–down corporate-driven process and a bottom–up
consumer-driven process. Corporate convergence coexists with grassroots convergence.
Media companies are learning how to accelerate the flow of media content
across delivery channels to expand revenue opportunities, broaden markets, and
reinforce viewer commitments. Consumers are learning how to use these different
media technologies to bring the flow of media more fully under their control and
to interact with other consumers (18).
Convergence culture is the result of three factors. The first is concentration of media
ownership. Owning a range of different platforms encourages producers to distribute
content across these different platforms. So, for example, a company may publish
the book of the film, together with the game based on both and promote these in its
magazines and newspapers and through its internet sites and mobile phone companies.
The second is technological change. This has created a new range of platforms for
media content. For example, we can now do so many more things with our mobile
phones than just make phone calls. We can take, send and receive photos and videos;
make send and receive sound files; send and receive text messages; download information
from the internet; receive ‘goal alerts’; play games; use it as a calendar, an alarm
clock and a calculator (see Jewitt, 2005).
The third factor involves the consumers of media. I may, for example, choose to
listen to my favourite music on my laptop, my CD or DVD player, my iPod, my car
radio, or on TV or radio. The same music is made available on different platforms, but
I have to actively participate to make the system work. Moreover, I select which platform
best suits my pleasure and convenience.
The British science fiction television series Doctor Who, as Neil Perryman (2009)
points out, ‘embraces convergence culture on an unprecedented scale’ (478). The BBC
has made the programme available across a range of different platforms: mobile
phones, podcasts, video blogs, websites, interactive red-button adventures, and online
games. In addition, it has launched two complementary series that take characters into
other contexts. As Perryman observes,

Doctor Who is a franchise that has actively embraced both the technical and cultural
shifts associated with media convergence since it returned to our television
screens in 2005. Its producers have attempted to provide extra-value content and
narrative complexity for both a hardcore fanbase and a mainstream audience by
deploying a series of evolving and changing storytelling strategies across a wide
range of media platforms (488).
Afterword
Postmodernism has changed the theoretical and the cultural basis of the study of popular
culture. It raises many questions, not least the role that can be played by the student
of popular culture: that is, what is our relationship to our object of study? With what
authority, and for whom, do we speak? As Frith and Horne (1987) suggest,
In the end the postmodern debate concerns the source of meaning, not just its relationship
to pleasure (and, in turn, to the source of that pleasure) but its relationship
to power and authority. Who now determines significance? Who has the right
to interpret? For pessimists and rationalists like Jameson the answer is multinational
capital – records, clothes, films, TV shows, etc. – are simply the results of
decisions about markets and marketing. For pessimists and irrationalists, like
Baudrillard, the answer is nobody at all – the signs that surround us are arbitrary.
For optimists like lain Chambers and Larry Grossberg the answer is consumers
themselves, stylists and subculturalists, who take the goods on offer and make their
own marks with them (169).
The next chapter will consist mostly of an attempt to find answers to some of these
questions.
Further reading
Further reading 211
Storey, John (ed.), Cultural Theory and Popular Culture: A Reader, 4th edition, Harlow:
Pearson Education, 2009. This is the companion volume to this book. It contains
examples of most of the work discussed here. This book and the companion Reader
are supported by an interactive website (www.pearsoned.co.uk/storey). The website
has links to other useful sites and electronic resources.
Appignansesi, Lisa, (ed.), Postmodernism, London: ICA, 1986. A collection of essays –
mostly philosophical – on postmodernism. McRobbie’s contribution, ‘Postmodernism
and popular culture’, is essential reading.

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Chapter 9 Postmodernism
Best, Steven, and Douglas Kellner, Postmodern Theory: Critical Interrogations, London:
Macmillan, 1991. An excellent introduction to the debate about postmodernism.
Boyne, Roy and Ali Rattansi (eds), Postmodernism and Society, London: Macmillan,
1990. A useful collection of essays, with a very good introduction to the main issues
in the debate about postmodernism.
Brooker, Peter and Will Brooker (eds), Postmodern After-Images: A Reader in Film,
Television and Video, London: Edward Arnold, 1997. An excellent collection of
essays, with very good introductory sections.
Campbell, Neil, Jude Davies, and George McKay, Issues in Americanization, Edinburgh:
Edinburgh University Press, 2004. A very good collection of essays on a variety of
topics relating to the idea of Americanization. The introduction is excellent.
Collins, Jim, Uncommon Cultures: Popular Culture and Postmodernism, London:
Routledge, 1989. A very interesting book, situating popular culture in the debate
about postmodernism.
Connor, Steven, Postmodernist Culture: An Introduction to Theories of the Contemporary,
Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1989. A comprehensive introduction to postmodernism:
useful discussion of popular culture.
Docker, John, Postmodernism and Popular Culture: A Cultural History, Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1994. The aim of the book is to challenge the way a
century of modernist theory has understood twentieth-century popular culture.
Intelligent, polemical and very readable.
Featherstone, Mike, Consumer Culture and Postmodernism, London: Sage, 1991. An interesting
sociological discussion of consumer culture and postmodernism. Essential
reading.
Hebdige, Dick, Hiding in the Light, London: Comedia, 1988. A Collection of essays
mostly related to questions of postmodernism and popular culture. Essential reading.
Jenkins, Henry, Convergence Culture: Where Old and New Media Collide, New York:
New York University Press, 2006. The key book on the emergence of ‘convergence
culture’.
Morris, Meaghan, The Pirate’s Fiancée: Feminism, Reading, Postmodernism, London:
Verso, 1988. A collection of essays concerned with both theory and analysis.
Essential reading.
Ross, Andrew (ed.), Universal Abandon: The Politics of Postmodernism, Minneapolis:
University of Minnesota Press, 1988. A useful collection of essays on postmodernism:
some interesting discussion of popular culture.
Woods, Tim, Beginning Postmodernism, Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1999.
Perhaps the best introduction to the debate that is postmodernism.

10 The politics of the
popular
I have tried in this book to outline something of the history of the relationship
between cultural theory and popular culture. In the main I have tended to focus on the
theoretical and methodological aspects and implications of the relationship, as this, in
my opinion, is the best way in which to introduce the subject. However, I am aware that
this has been largely at the expense of, on the one hand, the historical conditions
of the production of theory about popular culture, and on the other, the political relations
of its production and reproduction (these are analytical emphases and not separate
and distinct ‘moments’).
Something I hope I have demonstrated, however, is the extent to which popular culture
is a concept of ideological contestation and variability, to be filled and emptied,
articulated and disarticulated, in a range of different and competing ways. Even my
own truncated and selective history of the study of popular culture shows that ‘studying’
popular culture can be a very serious business indeed – a serious political business.
A paradigm crisis in cultural studies?
In Cultural Populism, Jim McGuigan (1992) claims that the study of popular culture
within contemporary cultural studies is in the throes of a paradigm crisis. This is
nowhere more clearly signalled than in the current polities of ‘cultural populism’.
McGuigan defines cultural populism as ‘the intellectual assumption, made by some
students of popular culture, that the symbolic experiences and practices of ordinary
people are more important analytically and politically than Culture with a capital C’
(4). On the basis of this definition, I am a cultural populist, and, moreover, so is
McGuigan. However, the purpose behind McGuigan’s book is not to challenge cultural
populism as such, but what he calls ‘an uncritical populist drift in the study of popular
culture’ (ibid.), with an increasing fixation on strategies of interpretation at the expense
of an adequate grasp of the historical and economic conditions of consumption. He
contends that there has been an uncritical drift away from the ‘once compelling . . .
neo-Gramscian hegemony theory’ (5) 49 towards an uncritical populism. In some ways,
this was inevitable (he claims) given the commitment of cultural studies to a

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hermeneutic mode at the expense of the perspective of political economy. But what
is worse, he maintains, is that cultural studies has increasingly narrowed its focus to
questions of interpretation without situating such questions within a context of material
relations of power. To reverse this trend, he advocates a dialogue between cultural
studies and the political economy of culture. He fears that for cultural studies to remain
separate is for it to remain politically ineffective as a mode of explanation, and thus for
it to remain complicit with the prevailing exploitative and oppressive structures of
powers.
In my view, the separation of contemporary cultural studies from the political
economy of culture has been one of the most disabling features of the field of
study. The core problematic was virtually premised on a terror of economic reductionism.
In consequence, the economic aspects of media institutions and the
broader economic dynamics of consumer culture were rarely investigated, simply
bracketed off, thereby severely undermining the explanatory and, in effect, critical
capacities of cultural studies (40–1).
Nicholas Garnham (2009) makes a similar point: ‘the project of cultural studies can
only be successfully pursued if the bridge with political economy is rebuilt’ (619). Work
on consumption in cultural studies has, or so the argument goes, vastly overestimated
the power of consumers, by failing to keep in view the ‘determining’ role production
plays in limiting the possibilities of consumption.
Cultural studies is thus accused of failing to situate consumption within the ‘determining’
conditions of production. Although the introduction of neo-Gramscian hegemony
theory into cultural studies had promised to do this, according to McGuigan
(1992), ‘it has never done so adequately due to the original schism with the political
economy of culture’ (76). Can we return to hegemony theory revitalized by political
economy? It seems that the answer is no: hegemony theory inevitably leads to an
uncritical populism, fixated with consumption at the expense of production. Our only
hope is to embrace the political economy of culture perspective.
McGuigan also claims that cultural populism’s exclusive focus on consumption and
a corresponding uncritical celebration of popular reading practices has produced a ‘crisis
of qualitative judgment’ (79). What he means by this is that there are no longer
absolutist criteria of judgement. What is ‘good’ and what is ‘bad’ is now open to dispute.
He blames postmodern uncertainty fostered by cultural populism, claiming that
‘the reinsertion of aesthetic and ethical judgment into the debate is a vital rejoinder to
the uncritical drift of cultural populism and its failure to dispute laissez-faire conceptions
of consumer sovereignty and quality’ (159). Clearly unhappy with the intellectual
uncertainties of postmodernism, he desires a return to the full authority of the
modernist intellectual: always ready to make clear and comprehensive that which the
ordinary mind is unable to grasp. He seeks a return to the Arnoldian certainties – culture
is the best that has been thought and said (and the modernist intellectual will tell
us what this is). He seems to advocate an intellectual discourse in which the university
lecturer is the guardian of the eternal flame of Culture, initiating the uninitiated into

A paradigm crisis in cultural studies? 215
the glow of its absolute moral and aesthetic value; students assume the role of passive
consumers of an already constituted knowledge – fixed, formulated and administered
by the professorial guardians of the flame. The refusal to privilege aesthetic judgement
is not in my opinion a crisis, but a welcome recognition that there are other, sometimes
far more interesting, questions to be asked (see Chapter 9). What is aesthetically ‘good’
and what is aesthetically ‘bad’ changes and changes again in context after context.
Moreover, what is ‘good’ aesthetically may be ‘bad’ in terms of politics; what is ‘bad’
aesthetically may be ‘good’ politically. Rather than being trapped by a hopeless quest
for abstract certainty, it is much more productive to recognize that it is only in
grounded contexts that these questions can be really answered. But more than this, cultural
studies should be little concerned with making speculative value judgements
about the inherent qualities of commodities and focus its time instead on what people
do with them, make from them, etc., in the constraining and enabling structures of
everyday life. These are what I mean by more interesting questions. Those who insist
on a return to absolute standards are saying little more than that it is too confusing
now: I want back my easy and unquestioned authority to tell ordinary people what it
is worth and how it is done.
That ordinary people use the symbolic resources available to them under present
conditions for meaningful activity is both manifest and endlessly elaborated upon
by new revisionism. Thus emancipatory projects to liberate people from their alleged
entrapment, whether they know they are entrapped or not, are called into question
by this fundamental insight. Economic exploitation, racism, gender and sexual
oppression, to name but a few, exist, but the exploited, estranged and oppressed
cope, and, furthermore, if such writers as John Fiske and Paul Willis are to be believed,
they cope very well indeed, making valid sense of the world and obtaining grateful
pleasure from what they receive. Apparently, there is so much action in the micropolitics
of everyday life that the Utopian promises of a better future, which were
once so enticing for critics of popular culture, have lost all credibility (171).
Most of this is simply untrue. Even Fiske (his prime example) does not celebrate an
achieved utopia, but the active struggle of men and women to make sense of and make
space in a world structured around exploitation and oppression. McGuigan seems to
be saying that pleasure (and its identification and celebration) is in some fundamental
sense counter-revolutionary. The duty and historical destiny of ordinary men and
women is to suffer and be still, until moral leftists reveal what is to be enjoyed on the
glorious morning of the long day after the Revolution. Feminists unwilling to lie back
and think about the economic base exposed the rhetorical vacuousness of this kind of
thinking long ago. It simply is not the case that claims that audiences produce meaning
are in some profound sense a denial of the need for political change. We can celebrate
symbolic resistance without abandoning our commitment to radical politics.
This is in effect the core of Ang’s point (see Chapter 7). Presented in this way, political
economy seems to amount to little more than another (sometimes sophisticated) version
of the ‘ideology of mass culture’.

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Despite my criticisms, I believe McGuigan makes an important argument of some
significance to students of popular culture. As he names John Fiske and Paul Willis as
perhaps the most ‘guilty’ of uncritical cultural populists, I shall outline some of the key
features of their recent work to explain what is at issue in what is so far a rather onesided
debate. In order to facilitate this, I will introduce two new concepts that have their
provenance in the work of Pierre Bourdieu, the ‘cultural field’ and the ‘economic field’.
The cultural field
John Fiske is generally seen as the epitome of the uncritical drift into cultural populism.
According to McGuigan, ‘Fiske’s position is . . . indicative of the critical decline of
British cultural studies’ (85). Fiske is said to continually sacrifice economic and technological
determinations to make space for interpretation – a purely hermeneutic version
of cultural studies. For example, he is accused of reducing the study of television
‘to a kind of subjective idealism’ (72), in which the popular reading is king or queen,
always ‘progressive’ – untroubled by questions of sexism or racism, and always
ungrounded in economic and political relations. In short, Fiske is accused of an uncritical
and unqualified celebration of popular culture; he is the classic example of what
happened to cultural studies following the supposed collapse of hegemony theory and
the consequent emergence of what McGuigan refers to as the ‘new revisionism’,
the reduction of cultural studies to competing hermeneutic models of consumption.
New revisionism, with its supposed themes of pleasure, empowerment, resistance and
popular discrimination, is said to represent a moment of ‘retreat from more critical
positions’ (75). In political terms, it is at best an uncritical echo of liberal claims about
the ‘sovereignty of the consumer’, and at worse it is uncritically complicit with prevailing
‘free market’ ideology.
Fiske would not accept ‘new revisionism’ as an accurate description of his position
on popular culture. He would also reject absolutely two assumptions implicit in the
attack on his work. First, he would dismiss totally the view that ‘the capitalist culture
industries produce only an apparent variety of products whose variety is finally illusory
for they all promote the same capitalist ideology’ (Fiske, 1987: 309). Second, he is
emphatic in his refusal of any argument which depends for its substance on the claim
‘that “the people” are “cultural dupes”. . . a passive, helpless mass incapable of discrimination
and thus at the economic, cultural, and political mercy of the barons of the
industry’ (ibid.). Against these assumptions, Fiske argues that the commodities from
which popular culture is made circulate in two simultaneous economies, the financial
and the cultural.
The workings of the financial economy cannot account adequately for all cultural
factors, but it still needs to be taken into account in any investigation. ...But the
cultural commodity cannot be adequately described in financial terms only: the

The cultural field 217
circulation that is crucial to its popularity occurs in the parallel economy – the
cultural (311).
Whereas the financial economy is primarily concerned with exchange value, the cultural
is primarily focused on use – ‘meanings, pleasures, and social identities’ (ibid.).
There is of course dialogical interaction between these separate, but related, economies.
Fiske gives the example of the American television programme Hill Street Blues. The
programme was made by MTM and sold to NBC. NBC then ‘sold’ the potential audience
to Mercedes Benz, the sponsors of the programme. This all takes place in the
financial economy. In the cultural economy, the television series changes from commodity
(to be sold to NBC) to a site for the production of meanings and pleasures for
its audience. And in the same way, the audience changes from a potential commodity
(to be sold to Mercedes Benz) to a producer (of meanings and pleasures). He argues
that ‘the power of audiences-as-producers in the cultural economy is considerable’
(313). The power of the audience, he contends,
derives from the fact that meanings do not circulate in the cultural economy in the
same way that wealth does in the financial. They are harder to possess (and thus to
exclude others from possessing), they are harder to control because the production
of meaning and pleasure is not the same as the production of the cultural commodity,
or of other goods, for in the cultural economy the role of consumer does
not exist as the end point of a linear economic transaction. Meanings and pleasures
circulate within it without any real distinction between producers and consumers
(ibid.).
The power of the consumer derives from the failure of producers to predict what will
sell. ‘Twelve out of thirteen records fail to make a profit, TV series are axed by the
dozen, expensive films sink rapidly into red figures (Raise the Titanic is an ironic example
– it nearly sank the Lew Grade empire)’ (ibid.). In an attempt to compensate for
failures, the culture industries produce ‘repertoires’ of goods in the hope of attracting
an audience; whereas the culture industries seek to incorporate audiences as commodity
consumers, the audience often excorporates the text to its own purposes. Fiske cites
the example of the way Australian Aboriginal viewers appropriated Rambo as a figure
of resistance, relevant to their own political and cultural struggles. He also cites the
example of Russian Jews watching Dallas in Israel and reading it as ‘capitalism’s selfcriticism’
(320).
Fiske argues that resistance to the power of the powerful by those without power in
Western societies takes two forms, semiotic and social. The first is mainly concerned
with meanings, pleasures and social identities; the second is dedicated to transformations
of the socio-economic system. He contends that ‘the two are closely related,
although relatively autonomous’ (316). Popular culture operates mostly, ‘but not
exclusively’, in the domain of semiotic power. It is involved in ‘the struggle between
homogenisation and difference, or between consensus and conflict’ (ibid.). In this
sense, popular culture is a semiotic battlefield in which audiences constantly engage in

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‘semiotic guerrilla warfare’ (316) in a conflict fought out between the forces of incorporation
and the forces of resistance: between an imposed set of meanings, pleasures
and social identities, and the meanings, pleasures and social identities produced in acts
of semiotic resistance, where ‘the hegemonic forces of homogeneity are always met by
the resistances of heterogeneity’ (Fiske, 1989a: 8). In Fiske’s semiotic war scenario, the
two economies favour opposing sides of the struggle: the financial economy is more
supportive of the forces of incorporation and homogenization; the cultural economy
is more accommodating to the forces of resistance and difference. Semiotic resistance,
he argues, has the effect of undermining capitalism’s attempt at ideological homogeneity:
dominant meanings are challenged by subordinate meanings; thus, the dominant
class’s intellectual and moral leadership is challenged. Fiske states his position
without apology and with absolute clarity:
It . . . sees popular culture as a site of struggle, but, while accepting the power of
the forces of dominance, it focuses rather upon the popular tactics by which these
forces are coped with, are evaded or are resisted. Instead of tracing exclusively the
processes of incorporation, it investigates rather that popular vitality and creativity
that makes incorporation such a constant necessity. Instead of concentrating on
the omnipresent, insidious practices of the dominant ideology, it attempts to
understand the everyday resistances and evasions that make that ideology work so
hard and insistently to maintain itself and its values. This approach sees popular
culture as potentially, and often actually, progressive (though not radical), and it
is essentially optimistic, for it finds in the vigour and vitality of the people evidence
both of the possibility of social change and of the motivation to drive it (20–1).
Fiske also locates popular culture in what Pierre Bourdieu (1984) calls ‘the cultural
field’ (113–20), in which takes place a cultural struggle between dominant or official
culture and popular culture abstracted from economic and technological determinations,
but ultimately overdetermined by them. According to Bourdieu, as Nicholas
Garnham and Raymond Williams (1980) explain,
all societies are characterised by a struggle between groups and/or classes and class
fractions to maximise their interests in order to ensure their reproduction. The
social formation is seen as a hierarchically organised series of fields within which
human agents are engaged in specific struggles to maximise their control over the
social resources specific to that field, the intellectual field, the educational field, the
economic field etc. . . . The fields are hierarchically organised in a structure overdetermined
by the field of class struggle over the production and distribution of
material resources and each subordinate field reproduces within its own structural
logic, the logic of the field of class struggle (215).
The historical creation of a unique space – the cultural field – in which Culture with
a capital C could develop above and beyond the social has for Bourdieu the purpose,
or at least the consequence, of reinforcing and legitimizing class power as cultural and

The cultural field 219
aesthetic difference. The class relations of the cultural field are structured around two
divisions: on the one hand, between the dominant classes and the subordinate classes,
and on the other, within the dominant classes between those with high economic capital
as opposed to high cultural capital, and those with high cultural capital as opposed
to high economic capital. Those whose power stems primarily from cultural rather
than economic power are engaged in a constant struggle within the cultural field ‘to
raise the social value of the specific competences involved in part by constantly trying
to raise the scarcity of those competences. It is for this reason that . . . they will always
resist as a body moves towards cultural democracy’ (220). 50
As we noted in Chapter 1 (see also Chapter 9), for Bourdieu (1984) the category of
‘taste’ functions as a marker of ‘class’ (using the word in a double sense to mean both
a socio-economic category and the suggestion of a particular level of quality). At the
pinnacle of the hierarchy of taste is the ‘pure’ aesthetic gaze – a historical invention –
with its emphasis on form over function. The ‘popular aesthetic’ reverses this emphasis,
subordinating form to function. Accordingly, popular culture is about performance,
high culture is about contemplation; high culture is about representation, popular culture
is about what is represented. As he explains, ‘Intellectuals could be said to believe
in the representation – literature, theatre, painting – more than in the things represented,
whereas the people chiefly expect representations and the conventions which
govern them to allow them to believe “naively” in the things represented’ (5).
Aesthetic ‘distance’ is in effect the denial of function: it insists on the ‘how’ and not
the ‘what’. It is analogous to the difference between judging a meal good because it was
economically priced and filling, and judging a meal good on the basis of how it was
served, where it was served. The ‘pure’ aesthetic or cultured gaze emerges with the emergence
of the cultural field, and becomes institutionalized in the art museum. Once
inside the museum art loses all prior functions (except that of being art) and becomes
pure form: ‘Though originally subordinated to quite different or even incompatible
functions (crucifix and fetish, Pieta and still life), these juxtaposed works tacitly
demand attention to form rather than function, technique rather than theme’ (30). For
example, an advertisement for soup displayed in an art gallery becomes an example of
the aesthetic, whereas the same advertisement in a magazine is an example of commerce.
The effect of the distinction is to produce ‘a sort of ontological promotion akin
to a transubstantiation’ (6).
As Bourdieu says, ‘it is not easy to describe the “pure” gaze without also describing
the naive gaze which it defines itself against’ (32). The naive gaze is of course the gaze
of the popular aesthetic:
The affirmation of continuity between art and life, which implies the subordination
of form to function ...a refusal of the refusal which is the starting point of
the high aesthetic, i.e. the clear cut separation of ordinary dispositions from the
specially aesthetic disposition (ibid.).
The relations between the pure gaze and the popular/naive gaze are needless to say
not those of equality, but a relation of dominant and dominated. Moreover, Bourdieu

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Chapter 10 The politics of the popular
argues that the two aesthetics articulate relations of power. Without the required
cultural capital to decipher the ‘code’ of art we are made socially vulnerable to the
condescension of those who have the required cultural capital. What is cultural (i.e.
acquired) is presented as natural (i.e. innate), and is, in turn, used to justify what are
social relations. In this way, ‘art and cultural consumption are predisposed . . . to fulfil
a social function of legitimating social differences’ (7). Bourdieu calls the operation of
such distinctions the ‘ideology of natural taste’ (68). According to the ideology, only a
supposedly instinctively gifted minority armed against the mediocrity of the masses
can attain genuine ‘appreciation’. Ortega y Gasset makes the point with precision: ‘art
helps the “best” to know and recognise one another in the greyness of the multitude
and to learn their mission, which is to be few in number and to have to fight against
the multitude’ (31). Aesthetic relations both mimic and help reproduce social relations
of power. As Bourdieu observes,
Aesthetic intolerance can be terribly violent. . . . The most intolerable thing for
those who regard themselves as the possessors of legitimate culture is the sacrilegious
reuniting of tastes which taste dictates shall be separated. This means that the
games of artists and aesthetes and their struggles for the monopoly of artistic legitimacy
are less innocent than they seem. At stake in every struggle over art there is
also the imposition of an art of living, that is, the transmutation of an arbitrary way
of living into the legitimate way of life which casts every other way of living into
arbitrariness (57).
Like other ideological strategies, ‘The ideology of natural taste owes its plausibility and
its efficacy to the fact that . . . it naturalises real differences, converting differences in
the mode of acquisition of culture into differences of nature’ (68).
In an argument that draws heavily on the work of Bourdieu, Paul Willis (1990)
argues that the aesthetic appreciation of ‘art’ has undergone an ‘internal hyperinstitutionalization’
(2) – the dissociation of art from life, a stress on form over function – in
a further attempt to distance itself and those who ‘appreciate’ it from the ‘uncultured
mass’. Part of this process is the denial of the necessary relationship between aesthetics
and ‘education’ (understood in its broadest sense to include both formal and
informal): the production and reproduction of the necessary ‘knowledge’ on which
aesthetic appreciation is founded. In denial of such a relationship, aesthetic appreciation
is presented as something innate, rather than something learned. Rather than
seeing this as a question of non-access to knowledge – they have not been ‘educated’
in the necessary code to ‘appreciate’ the formal qualities of high culture – the majority
of the population are encouraged to view ‘themselves as ignorant, insensitive and
without the finer sensibilities of those who really “appreciate”. Absolutely certainly
they’re not the “talented” or “gifted”, the elite minority held to be capable of performing
or creating “art”’ (3). This manufactures a situation in which people who make
culture in their everyday lives see themselves as uncultured. Against the strategies of the
‘internal hyperinstitutionalization’ of culture, Willis argues the case for what he calls
‘grounded aesthetics’: the process through which ordinary people make cultural sense

The cultural field 221
of the world: ‘the ways in which the received natural and social world is made human
to them and made, to however small a degree (even if finally symbolic), controllable
by them’ (22).
[Grounded aesthetics] is the creative element in a process whereby meanings are
attributed to symbols and practices and where symbols and practices are selected,
reselected, highlighted and recomposed to resonate further appropriate and particularised
meanings. Such dynamics are emotional as well as cognitive. There are
as many aesthetics as there are grounds for them to operate in. Grounded aesthetics
are the yeast of common culture (21).
Grounded aesthetic value is never intrinsic to a text or practice, a universal quality
of its form; it is always inscribed in the ‘sensuous/emotive/cognitive’ (24) act of consumption
(how a commodity is appropriated, ‘used’ and made into culture). This is an
argument against those who locate creativity only in the act of production, consumption
being merely the recognition or misrecognition of the aesthetic intention. Against
such claims, Willis insists that consumption is a symbolic act of creativity. His ‘fundamental
point . . . is that “messages” are not now so much “sent” and “received” as made
in reception. . . .“Sent message” communication is being replaced by “made message”
communication’ (135). Cultural communication is ceasing to be a process of listening
to the voices of others. Grounded aesthetics is the insistence that commodities are consumed
(and made into culture) on the basis of use, rather than in terms of supposed
inherent and ahistorical qualities (textual or authorial). In grounded aesthetics, meanings
or pleasures are undecidable in advance of the practices of ‘production in use’. This
of course means that a commodity or a commodified practice which is judged to be
banal and uninteresting (on the basis of textual analysis or an analysis of its mode of
production), may be made to bear or to do, in its ‘production in use’, all sorts of interesting
things within the lived conditions of a specific context of consumption. In this
way, Willis’s argument is a rebuke to both textualism, which makes judgements on the
basis of formal qualities, and the political economy of culture approach, which makes
judgements on the basis of the relations of production. The ‘symbolic work’ of consumption,
he maintains, is never a simple repetition of the relations of production, nor
is it a direct confirmation of the semiotic certainties of the lecture theatre.
People bring living identities to commerce and the consumption of cultural commodities
as well as being formed there. They bring experiences, feelings, social
position and social memberships to their encounter with commerce. Hence they
bring a necessary creative symbolic pressure, not only to make sense of cultural
commodities, but partly through them also to make sense of contradiction and
structure as they experience them in school, college, production, neighbourhood,
and as members of certain genders, races, classes and ages. The results of this
necessary symbolic work may be quite different from anything initially coded into
cultural commodities (21).

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The French cultural theorist Michel de Certeau (1984, 2009) also interrogates the
term ‘consumer’, to reveal the activity that lies within the act of consumption or what
he prefers to call ‘secondary production’ (2009: 547). Consumption, as he says, ‘is
devious, it is dispersed, but it insinuates itself everywhere, silently and almost invisibly,
because it does not manifest itself through its own products, but rather through
its ways of using the products imposed by a dominant economic order’ (546). For de
Certeau, the cultural field is a site of continual conflict (silent and almost invisibly)
between the ‘strategy’ of cultural imposition (production) and the ‘tactics’ of cultural
use (consumption or ‘secondary production’). The cultural critic must be alert to
‘the difference or similarity between . . . production . . . and . . . secondary production
hidden in the process of . . . utilisation’ (547). 51 He characterizes the active consumption
of texts as ‘poaching’: ‘readers are travellers; they move across lands belonging to
someone else, like nomads poaching their way across the fields they did not write’
(1984: 174).
The idea of reading as poaching is clearly a rejection of any theoretical position that
assumes that the ‘message’ of a text is something which is imposed on a reader. Such
approaches, he argues, are based on a fundamental misunderstanding of the processes
of consumption. It is a ‘misunderstanding [which] assumes that “assimilating” necessarily,
means “becoming similar to” what one absorbs, and not “making something
similar” to what one is, making it one’s own, appropriating or reappropriating it’ (166).
Acts of textual poaching are always in potential conflict with the ‘scriptural economy’
(131–76) of textual producers and those institutional voices (professional critics,
academics, etc.) who, through an insistence on the authority of authorial and/or textual
meaning, work to limit and to confine the production and circulation of ‘unauthorized’
meanings. In this way, de Certeau’s notion of ‘poaching’ is a challenge to
traditional models of reading, in which the purpose of reading is the passive reception
of authorial and/or textual intent: that is, models of reading in which reading is
reduced to a question of being ‘right’ or ‘wrong’. He makes an interesting observation
about how the notion of a text containing a hidden meaning may help sustain certain
relationships of power in matters of pedagogy:
This fiction condemns consumers to subjection because they are always going to
be guilty of infidelity or ignorance when confronted by the mute ‘riches’ of the treasury.
. . . The fiction of the ‘treasury’ hidden in the work, a sort of strong-box full
of meaning, is obviously not based on the productivity of the reader, but on the
social institution that overdetermines his relation with the text. Reading is as it
were overprinted by a relationship of forces (between teachers and pupils ...)
whose instrument it becomes (171).
This may in turn produce a teaching practice in which ‘students . . . are scornfully
driven back or cleverly coaxed back to the meaning “accepted” by their teachers’
(172). 52 This is often informed by what we might call ‘textual determinism’: 53 the view
that the value of something is inherent in the thing itself. This position can lead to
a way of working in which certain texts and practices are prejudged to be beneath

The cultural field 223
the legitimate concerns of the academic gaze. Against this way of thinking, I would
contend that what really matters is not the object of study, but how the object is
studied.
Many areas of everyday life could be said to illustrate de Certeau’s account of the
practice of consumption but perhaps none more so than the consumption practices of
fan cultures. Together with youth subcultures, fans are perhaps the most visible part of
the audience for popular texts and practices. In recent years fandom has come increasingly
under the critical gaze of cultural studies. Traditionally, fans have been treated in
one of two ways – ridiculed or pathologized. According to Joli Jenson (1992), ‘The literature
on fandom is haunted by images of deviance. The fan is consistently characterised
(referencing the term’s origins) as a potential fanatic. This means that fandom
is seen as excessive, bordering on deranged, behaviour’ (9). Jenson suggests two typical
types of fan pathology, ‘the obsessed individual’ (usually male) and ‘the hysterical
crowd’ (usually female). She contends that both figures result from a particular reading
and ‘unacknowledged critique of modernity’, in which fans are viewed ‘as a psychological
symptom of a presumed social dysfunction’ (ibid.). Fans are presented as
one of the dangerous ‘others’ of modern life. ‘We’ are sane and respectable; ‘they’ are
either obsessed or hysterical.
This is yet another discourse on other people. Fandom is what ‘other people’ do.
This can be seen clearly in the way in which fandom is assigned to the cultural activities
of popular audiences, whilst dominant groups are said to have cultural interests,
tastes and preferences. Moreover, as Jenson points out, this is a discourse that seeks to
secure and police distinctions between class cultures. This is supposedly confirmed by
the object(s) of admiration which mark off the tastes of dominant groups from those
of popular audiences, 54 but it is also supposedly sustained by the methods of appreciation
– popular audiences are said to display their pleasure to emotional excess,
whereas the audience for dominant culture is always able to maintain respectable
aesthetic distance and control. 55
Perhaps one of the most interesting accounts of a fan culture from within cultural
studies is Henry Jenkins’s (1992) Textual Poachers. In an ethnographic investigation
of a fan community (mostly, but not exclusively, white middle-class women), he
approaches fandom as ‘both . . . an academic (who has access to certain theories of
popular culture, certain bodies of critical and ethnographic literature) and as a fan
(who has access to the particular knowledge and traditions of that community)’ (5).
Fan reading is characterized by an intensity of intellectual and emotional involvement.
‘The text is drawn close not so that the fan can be possessed by it but rather so
that the fan may more fully possess it. Only by integrating media content back into
their everyday lives, only by close engagement with its meanings and materials, can
fans fully consume the fiction and make it an active resource’ (62). Arguing against textual
determinism (the text determines how it will be read and in so doing positions the
reader in a particular ideological discourse), he insists that ‘[t]he reader is drawn not
into the preconstituted world of the fiction but rather into a world she has created from
textual materials. Here, the reader’s pre-established values are at least as important as
those preferred by the narrative system’ (63).

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Fans do not just read texts, they continually reread them. This changes profoundly
the nature of the text–reader relationship. Rereading undermines the operations of
what Barthes (1975) calls the ‘hermeneutic code’ (the way a text poses questions to
generate the desire to keep reading). Rereading in this way thus shifts the reader’s attention
from ‘what will happen’ to ‘how things happen’, to questions of character relations,
narrative themes, the production of social knowledges and discourses.
Whereas most reading is a solitary practice, performed in private, fans consume texts
as part of a community. Fan culture is about the public display and circulation of
meaning production and reading practices. Fans make meanings to communicate with
other fans. The public display and circulation of these meanings are crucial to a fan
culture’s reproduction. As Jenkins explains, ‘Organised fandom is, perhaps first and
foremost, an institution of theory and criticism, a semistructured space where competing
interpretations and evaluations of common texts are proposed, debated, and
negotiated and where readers speculate about the nature of the mass media and their
own relationship to it’ (86).
Fan cultures are not just bodies of enthusiastic readers; they are also active cultural
producers. Jenkins notes ten ways in which fans rewrite their favourite television shows
(162–77):
1. Recontextualization – the production of vignettes, short stories and novels which
seek to fill in the gaps in broadcast narratives and suggest additional explanations
for particular actions.
2. Expanding the series timeline – the production of vignettes, short stories, novels
which provide background history of characters, etc., not explored in broadcast
narratives or suggestions for future developments beyond the period covered by
the broadcast narrative.
3. Refocalization – this occurs when fan writers move the focus of attention from the
main protagonists to secondary figures. For example, female or black characters
are taken from the margins of a text and given centre stage.
4. Moral realignment – a version of refocalization in which the moral order of the
broadcast narrative is inverted (the villains become the good guys). In some versions
the moral order remains the same but the story is now told from the point
of view of the villains.
5. Genre shifting – characters from broadcast science fiction narratives, say, are relocated
in the realms of romance or the Western, for example.
6. Cross-overs – characters from one television programme are introduced into
another. For example, characters from Doctor Who may appear in the same narrative
as characters from Star Wars.
7. Character dislocation – characters are relocated in new narrative situations, with
new names and new identities.
8. Personalization – the insertion of the writer into a version of their favourite television
programme. For example, I could write a short story in which I am recruited
by Doctor Who to travel with him in the Tardis on a mission to explore what has
become of Manchester United in the twenty-fourth century. However, as Jenkins

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points out, many in the fan culture discourage this subgenre of fan writing.
9. Emotional intensification – the production of what are called ‘hurt-comfort’ stories
in which favourite characters, for example, experience emotional crises.
10. Eroticization – stories that explore the erotic side of a character’s life. Perhaps the
best known of this subgenre of fan writing is ‘slash’ fiction, so called because it
depicts same-sex relationships (as in Kirk/Spock, etc.).
In addition to fan fiction, fans make music videos in which images from favourite
programmes are edited into new sequences to a soundtrack provided by a popular
song; they make fan art; they produce fanzines; they engage in ‘filking’ (the writing and
performing at conferences of songs – filk songs – about programmes, characters or the
fan culture itself); and they organize campaigns to encourage television networks to
bring back favourite programmes or to make changes in existing ones. 56 As Jenkins
points out, echoing de Certeau, ‘Fans are poachers who get to keep what they take and
use their plundered goods as the foundations for the construction of an alternative cultural
community’ (223).
In his discussion of filking, Jenkins draws attention to a common opposition within
filk songs between fandom and ‘Mundania’ (the world in which non-fans – ‘mundane
readers’ or ‘mundanes’ – live). The difference between the two worlds is not simply one
of intensity of response: ‘Fans are defined in opposition to the values and norms of
everyday life, as people who live more richly, feel more intensely, play more freely, and
think more deeply than “mundanes”’ (268). Moreover, ‘Fandom constitutes ...a
space . . . defined by its refusal of mundane values and practices, its celebration of
deeply held emotions and passionately embraced pleasures. Fandom’s very existence
represents a critique of conventional forms of consumer culture’ (283).
What he finds particularly empowering about fan cultures is their struggle to create
‘a more participatory culture’ from ‘the very forces that transform many Americans into
spectators’ (284). It is not the commodities that are empowering, it is what the fans do
with them that empowers. As Jenkins explains,
I am not claiming that there is anything particularly empowering about the texts
fans embrace. I am, however, claiming that there is something empowering about
what fans do with those texts in the process of assimilating them to the particulars
of their lives. Fandom celebrates not exceptional texts but rather exceptional readings
(though its interpretive practices make it impossible to maintain a clear or precise
distinction between the two) (ibid.).
In a way reminiscent of the classic cultural studies model of subcultural reading, fan
cultures, according to Jenkins, struggle to resist the demands of the ordinary and the
everyday. Whereas youth subcultures define themselves against parent and dominant
cultures, fan cultures define themselves in opposition to the supposed everyday cultural
passivities of ‘Mundania’.
Grossberg (1992) is critical of the ‘subcultural’ model of fan cultures, in which ‘fans
constitute an elite fraction of the larger audience of passive consumers’ (52).

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Thus, the fan is always in constant conflict, not only with the various structures of
power, but also with the vast audience of media consumers. But such an elitist view
of fandom does little to illuminate the complex relations that exist between forms
of popular culture and their audiences. While we may all agree that there is a difference
between the fan and the consumer, we are unlikely to understand the
difference if we simply celebrate the former category and dismiss the latter one
(ibid.).
In a similar way, subcultural analysis has always tended to celebrate the extraordinary
against the ordinary – a binary opposition between resistant ‘style’ and conformist
‘fashion’. Subcultures represent youth in resistance, actively refusing to conform to the
passive commercial tastes of the majority of youth. Once resistance has given way to
incorporation, analysis stops, waiting for the next ‘great refusal’. Gary Clarke (1990)
draws attention to the London-centredness of much British subcultural theory, with
its suggestion that the appearance of a given youth subculture in the provinces is a
telling sign of its incorporation. It is not surprising, then, that he also detects a certain
level of cultural elitism structuring much of the classic cultural studies work on youth
subcultures.
I would argue generally that the subcultural literature’s focus on the stylistic
deviance of a few contains (albeit implicitly) a similar treatment of the rest of the
working class as unproblematically incorporated. This is evident, for example, in
the distaste felt for youth deemed as outside subcultural activity – even though most
‘straight’ working-class youths enjoy the same music, styles, and activities as the
subcultures – and in the disdain for such cults as glam, disco, and the Ted revival,
which lack ‘authenticity’. Indeed, there seems to be an underlying contempt for
‘mass culture’ (which stimulates the interest in those who deviate from it) that
stems from the work of the Marxism of the Frankfurt School and, within the
English tradition, to the fear of mass culture expressed in The Uses of Literacy (90).
If subcultural consumption is to remain an area of concern in cultural studies,
Clarke suggests that future analysis ‘should take the breakthrough of a style as its starting
point’ (92), rather than seeing this as the defining moment of incorporation. Better
still, cultural studies should focus on ‘the activities of all youths to locate continuities
and discontinuities in culture and social relations and to discover the meaning these
activities have for the youths themselves’ (95).
The economic field
McGuigan (1992) claims, as I observed earlier, that ‘the separation of contemporary
cultural studies from the political economy of culture has been one of the most

The economic field 227
disabling features of the field of study’ (40). So what can political economy offer to
cultural studies? 57 Here is Peter Golding and Graham Murdock’s (1991) outline of its
protocols and procedures:
What distinguishes the critical political economy perspective . . . is precisely its
focus on the interplay between the symbolic and economic dimensions of public
communications [including popular culture]. It sets out to show how different
ways of financing and organising cultural production have traceable consequences
for the range of discourses and representations in the public domain and for audiences’
access to them (15; my italics).
The significant word here is ‘access’ (privileged over ‘use’ and ‘meaning’). This reveals
the limitations of the approach: good on the economic dimensions but weak on the
symbolic. Golding and Murdock suggest that the work of theorists such as Willis and
Fiske in its ‘romantic celebration of subversive consumption is clearly at odds with
cultural studies’ long-standing concern with the way the mass media operate ideologically,
to sustain and support prevailing relations of domination’ (17). What is
particularly revealing about this claim is not the critique of Willis and Fiske, but the
assumptions about the purposes of cultural studies. They seem to be suggesting that
unless the focus is firmly and exclusively on domination and manipulation, cultural
studies is failing in its task. There are only two positions: on the one hand, romantic
celebration, and on the other, the recognition of ideological power – and only the second
is a serious scholarly pursuit. Are all attempts to show people resisting ideological
manipulation forms of romantic celebration? Are left pessimism and moral leftism the
only guarantees of political and scholarly seriousness?
Political economy’s idea of cultural analysis seems to involve little more than
detailing access to, and availability of, texts and practices. Nowhere do they actually
advocate a consideration of what these texts and practices might mean (textually) or be
made to mean in use (consumption). As Golding and Murdock point out,
in contrast to recent work on audience activity within cultural studies, which concentrates
on the negotiation of textual interpretations and media use in immediate
social settings, critical political economy seeks to relate variations in people’s
responses to their overall location in the economic system (27).
This seems to suggest that the specific materiality of a text is unimportant, and that
audience negotiations are mere fictions, illusory moves in a game of economic power.
Whilst it is clearly important to locate the texts and practices of popular culture
within the field of their economic conditions of existence, it is clearly insufficient to do
this in the way advocated by political economy and to think then that you have also
analysed and answered important questions to do with both the specific materiality of
a text, and audience appropriation and use. It seems to me that post-Marxist hegemony
theory still holds the promise of keeping in active relationship production, text and
consumption, whereas political economy threatens, in spite of its admirable intentions,
to collapse everything back into the economic.

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It is Willis’s attitude to the capitalist market that most offends political economy,
especially his claim that the capitalist drive for profit produces the very conditions for
the production of new forms of common culture.
No other agency has recognised this realm [common culture] or supplied it with
usable symbolic materials. And commercial entrepreneurship of the cultural field
has discovered something real. For whatever self-serving reasons it was accomplished,
we believe that this is an historical recognition. It counts and is irreversible.
Commercial cultural forms have helped to produce an historical present
from which we cannot now escape and in which there are many more materials –
no matter what we think of them – available for necessary symbolic work than ever
there were in the past. Out of these come forms not dreamt of in the commercial
imagination and certainly not in the official one – forms which make up common
culture (1990: 19).
Capitalism is not a monolithic system. Like any ‘structure’ it is contradictory in that
it both constrains and enables ‘agency’. For example, whilst one capitalist bemoans the
activities of the latest youth subculture, another embraces it with economic enthusiasm,
and is prepared to supply it with all the commodities it is able to desire. It is these,
and similar, contradictions in the capitalist market system which have produced the
possibility of a common culture.
Commerce and consumerism have helped to release a profane explosion of everyday
symbolic life and activity. The genie of common culture is out of the bottle –
let out by commercial carelessness. Not stuffing it back in, but seeing what wishes
may be granted, should be the stuff of our imagination (27).
This entails what Willis knows will be anathema for many, not least the advocates of
political economy, the suggestion of ‘the possibility of cultural emancipation working,
at least in part, through ordinary, hitherto uncongenial economic mechanisms’ (131).
Although it may not be entirely clear what is intended by ‘cultural emancipation’,
beyond, that is, the claim that it entails a break with the hegemonic exclusions of
‘official culture’. What is clear, however, and remains anathema to political economy,
is that he sees the market, in part, because of its contradictions – ‘supplying materials
for its own critique’ (139) – and despite its intentions and its distortions, as facilitating
the symbolic creativity of the realm of common culture.
People find on the market incentives and possibilities not simply for their own
confinement but also for their own development and growth. Though turned
inside out, alienated and working through exploitation at every turn, these incentives
and possibilities promise more than any visible alternative. . . . Nor will it
suffice any longer in the face of grounded aesthetics to say that modern ‘consumer
identities’ simply repeat ‘inscribed positions’ within market provided texts and
artefacts. Of course the market does not provide cultural empowerment in

The economic field 229
anything like a full sense. There are choices, but not choices over choices – the
power to set the cultural agenda. Nevertheless the market offers a contradictory
empowerment which has not been offered elsewhere. It may not be the best way
to cultural emancipation for the majority, but it may open up the way to a better way
(160; my italics).
Like capitalism, the culture industries, which supply the commodities from which
people make culture, are themselves not monolithic and non-contradictory. From the
very first of the culture industries, nineteenth-century stage melodrama, to perhaps one
of the most powerful in the twentieth century, pop music, cultural commodities have
been ‘articulated’ in ways which ‘may open the way to a better future’. For example,
Figure 10.1 is a poster for a benefit organized at the Queen’s Theatre (a commercial
site established to sell commodified entertainment) in Manchester. The poster shows
how the theatre had given itself over (or had been taken over) for a benefit performance
in support of bookbinders striking in London. 58 Another significant example
is the fact that Nelson Mandela’s first major public appearance, following his release in
1990, was to attend a concert to thank a pop music audience (consumers of the commodified
practice that is pop music) because they ‘chose to care’. 59 Both examples challenge
the idea that capitalism and the capitalist culture industries are monolithic and
non-contradictory.
Willis also makes the point that it is crude and simplistic to assume that the effects
of consumption must mirror the intentions of production. As Terry Lovell (2009)
points out, drawing on the work of Marx (1976c), the capitalist commodity has a
double existence, as both use value and exchange value. Use value refers to ‘the ability
of the commodity to satisfy some human want’ (539). Such wants, says Marx, ‘may
spring from the stomach or from the fancy’ (ibid.). The exchange value of a commodity
is the amount of money realized when the commodity is sold in the market. Crucial
to Willis’s argument is the fact, as pointed out by Lovell, that ‘the use value of a commodity
cannot be known in advance of investigation of actual use of the commodity’
(540). Moreover, as Lovell indicates, the commodities from which popular culture is
made
have different use values for the individuals who use and purchase them than they
have for the capitalists who produce and sell them, and in turn, for capitalism as
a whole. We may assume that people do not purchase these cultural artefacts
in order to expose themselves to bourgeois ideology . . . but to satisfy a variety of
different wants which can only be guessed at in the absence of analysis and investigation.
There is no guarantee that the use-value of the cultural object for its purchaser
will even be compatible with its utility to capitalism as bourgeois ideology
(542).
Almost everything we buy helps reproduce the capitalist system economically.
But everything we buy does not necessarily help secure us as ‘subjects’ of capitalist
ideology. If, for example, I go to an anti-capitalist demonstration, my travel, food,

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Figure 10.1 For the benefit of striking bookbinders.

The economic field 231
accommodation, clothing, etc., all contribute to the reproduction of the system I would
like to overthrow. Therefore, although most of, if not all, my consumption is ‘capitalist’,
this does not prevent me from being anti-capitalist. There is always a potential contradiction
between exchange value and use value.
The primary concern of capitalist production is exchange value leading to surplus
value (profit). This does not mean, of course, that capitalism is uninterested in use
value: without use value, commodities would not sell (so every effort is made to stimulate
demand). But it does mean that the individual capitalist’s search for surplus value
can often be at the expense of the general ideological needs of the system as a whole.
Marx was more aware than most of the contradictions in the capitalist system. In a discussion
of the demands of capitalists that workers should save in order to better endure
the fluctuations of boom and slump, he points to the tension that may exist between
‘worker as producer’ and ‘worker as consumer’:
each capitalist does demand that his workers should save, but only his own,
because they stand towards him as workers; but by no means the remaining world
of workers, for these stand towards him as consumers. In spite of all ‘pious’
speeches he therefore searches for means to spur them on to consumption, to give
his wares new charms, to inspire them with new needs by constant chatter, etc.
(Marx, 1973: 287).
The situation is further complicated by tensions between particular capitals and capitalism
as a whole. Common class interests – unless specific restraints, censorship, etc.,
are imposed – usually take second place to the interests of particular capitals in search
of surplus value.
If surplus value can be extracted from the production of cultural commodities
which challenge, or even subvert, the dominant ideology, then all other things
being equal it is in the interests of particular capitals to invest in the production of
such commodities. Unless collective class restraints are exercised, the individual
capitalist’s pursuit of surplus value may lead to forms of cultural production which
are against the interests of capitalism as a whole (Lovell, 2009: 542–3).
To explore this possibility would require specific focus on consumption as opposed to
production. This is not to deny the claim of political economy that a full analysis must
take into account technological and economic determinations. But it is to insist that if
our focus is consumption, then our focus must be consumption as it is experienced and
not as it should be experienced given a prior analysis of the relations of production.
Those on the moral and pessimistic left who attack the capitalist relations of consumption
miss the point: it is the capitalist relations of production that are oppressive
and exploitative and not the consumer choice facilitated by the capitalist market. This
also seems to be Willis’s point. Moral leftists and left pessimists have allowed themselves
to become trapped in an elitist and reactionary argument that claims more
(quantity) always means less (quality).

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It is important to distinguish between the power of the culture industries and the
power of their influence. Too often the two are conflated, but they are not necessarily
the same. The trouble with the political economy approach is that too often it is
assumed that they are the same. Warner Bros is undoubtedly part of a powerful multinational
company, dealing in capitalist commodities. But once this is established, what
next? Does it follow, for example, that all Warner Bros’ products are the bearers of capitalist
ideology? Despite what REM, for example, may say or think to the contrary, are
they really mere purveyors of capitalist ideology? Those who buy their records, pay to
see them live, are they really in effect buying capitalist ideology; being duped by a capitalist
multinational; being reproduced as capitalist subjects, ready to spend more and
more money and consume more and more ideology? The problem with this approach
is that it fails to acknowledge fully that capitalism produces commodities on the basis
of their exchange value, whereas people tend to consume the commodities of capitalism
on the basis of their use value. There are two economies running in parallel
courses: the economy of use, and the economy of exchange – we do not understand
one by interrogating only the other. We cannot understand consumption by collapsing
it into production, nor will we understand production by reading it off consumption.
Of course the difficulty is not in keeping them apart, but in bringing them into a relationship
that can be meaningfully analysed. However, if when studying popular
culture our interest is the repertoire of products available for consumption, then
production is our primary concern, whereas, if we are interested in discovering the particular
pleasures of a specific text or practice, our primary focus should be on consumption.
In both instances, our approach would be determined by the questions we
seek to answer. Although it is certainly true that in an ideal research situation – given
adequate time and funding – cultural analysis would remain incomplete until production
and consumption had been dialectically linked, in the real world of study this is
not always going to be the case. In the light of this, political economy’s insistence that
it offers the only really valid approach to the study of popular culture is not only
untrue, but, if widely believed, could result in either a reductive distortion, or a complete
stifling, of cultural studies research.
Post-Marxist cultural studies: hegemony revisited
The critique of cultural studies offered by political economy is important not for what
it says but because it draws attention to a question, which, needless to say, it does not
itself answer. The question is how to keep in analytical view the ‘conditions of existence’
of the texts and practices of everyday life. The problem with the mode of analysis
advocated by political economy is that it only addresses the beginning of the
process of making culture. What they describe is better understood, to borrow Stuart
Hall’s (1996c) phrase, as ‘determination by the economic in the first instance’ (45).
There are economic conditions, and fear of economic reductionism cannot just will

Post-Marxist cultural studies: hegemony revisited 233
them away. However, the point is not simply to detail these conditions, to produce an
understanding of how these conditions generate a repertoire of commodities; what is
also required is an understanding of the many ways in which people select, appropriate
and use these commodities, and make them into culture. In other words, what is
needed is an understanding of the relationship between ‘structure’ and ‘agency’. This
will not be achieved by abandoning one side of the relationship. Hall (1996d) is
undoubtedly right to suggest that a number of people working in cultural studies have
at times turned away from ‘economic’ explanations:
What has resulted from the abandonment of deterministic economism has been,
not alternative ways of thinking questions about the economic relations and their
effects, as the ‘conditions of existence’ of other practices . . . but instead a massive,
gigantic, and eloquent disavowal. As if, since the economic in the broadest sense,
definitely does not, as it was once supposed to do, ‘determine’ the real movement
of history ‘in the last instance’, it does not exist at all! (258).
Hall describes this as ‘a failure of theorisation so profound, and . . . so disabling, that
. . . it has enabled much weaker and less conceptually rich paradigms to continue to
flourish and dominate the field’ (ibid.). A return there must be to a consideration of
the ‘conditions of existence’, but it cannot be a return to the kind of analysis canvassed
by political economy, in which it is assumed that ‘access’ is the same as appropriation
and use, and that production tells us all we need to know about textuality and consumption.
Nor is it a matter of having to build bridges to political economy; what is
required, as McRobbie and others have canvassed, is a return to what has been, since
the 1970s, the most convincing and coherent theoretical focus of (British) cultural
studies – hegemony theory.
McRobbie accepts that cultural studies has been radically challenged as debates
about postmodernism and postmodernity have replaced the more familiar debates
about ideology and hegemony. She argues that it has responded in two ways. On the
one hand, there have been those who have advocated a return to the certainties of
Marxism. Whilst on the other, there have been those who have turned to consumption
(understood too exclusively in terms of pleasure and meaning-making). In some ways,
as she recognizes, this is almost a rerun of the structuralism/culturalism debate of the
late 1970s and early 1980s. It could also be seen as yet another performance of the
playing of one side of Marx’s (1977) dialectic against the other (we are made by history
/ we make history). McRobbie (1994) rejects a return ‘to a crude and mechanical
base–superstructure model, and also the dangers of pursuing a kind of cultural populism
to a point at which anything which is consumed and is popular is also seen as
oppositional’ (39). Instead, she calls for ‘an extension of Gramscian cultural analysis’
(ibid.); and for a return to ethnographic cultural analysis which takes as its object of
study ‘the lived experience which breathes life into [the]. . . inanimate objects [the
commodities supplied by the culture industries]’ (27).
Post-Marxist hegemony theory at its best insists that there is always a dialogue
between the processes of production and the activities of consumption. The consumer

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always confronts a text or practice in its material existence as a result of determinate
conditions of production. But in the same way, the text or practice is confronted by a
consumer who in effect produces in use the range of possible meaning(s) – these cannot
just be read off from the materiality of the text or practice, or the means or relations of
its production. 60
The ideology of mass culture
We have to start from here and now, and acknowledge that we (all of us) live in a world
dominated by multinational capitalism, and will do so for the foreseeable future –
‘pessimism of the intelligence, optimism of the will’, as Gramsci said (1971: 175). We
need to see ourselves – all people, not just vanguard intellectuals – as active participants
in culture: selecting, rejecting, making meanings, attributing value, resisting and,
yes, being duped and manipulated. This does not mean that we forget about ‘the politics
of representation’. What we must do (and here I agree with Ang) is see that although
pleasure is political, pleasure and politics can often be different. Liking Desperate
Housewives or The Sopranos does not determine my politics, making me more left-wing
or less left-wing. There is pleasure and there is politics: we can laugh at the distortions,
the evasions, the disavowals, whilst still promoting a politics that says these are distortions,
evasions, disavowals. We must teach each other to know, to politicize for, to
recognize the difference between different versions of reality, and to know that each can
require a different politics. This does not mean the end of a feminist or a socialist cultural
politics, or the end of struggles around the representations of ‘race’, class, gender,
disability or sexuality, but it should mean the final break with the ‘culture and civilization’
problematic, with its debilitating insistence that particular patterns of consumption
determine the moral and political worth of an individual.
In many ways, this book has been about what Ang calls ‘the ideology of mass culture’.
Against this ideology, I have posed the patterns of pleasure in consumption and
the consumption of pleasure, aware that I continually run the risk of advocating an
uncritical cultural populism. Ultimately, I have argued that popular culture is what we
make from the commodities and commodified practices made available by the culture
industries. To paraphrase what I said in the discussion of post-Marxist cultural studies,
making popular culture (‘production in use’) 61 can be empowering to subordinate and
resistant to dominant understandings of the world. But this is not to say that popular
culture is always empowering and resistant. To deny the passivity of consumption is
not to deny that sometimes consumption is passive; to deny that the consumers of
popular culture are cultural dupes is not to deny that the culture industries seek to
manipulate. But it is to deny that popular culture is little more than a degraded landscape
of commercial and ideological manipulation, imposed from above in order to
make profit and secure social control. Post-Marxist cultural studies insists that to decide
these matters requires vigilance and attention to the details of production, textuality

and consumption. These are not matters that can be decided once and for all (outside
the contingencies of history and politics) with an elitist glance and a condescending
sneer. Nor can they be read off from the moment of production (locating meaning,
pleasure, ideological effect, the probability of incorporation, the possibility of resistance,
in, variously, the intention, the means of production or the production itself):
these are only aspects of the contexts for ‘production in use’; and it is, ultimately, in
‘production in use’ that questions of meaning, pleasure, ideological effect, incorporation
or resistance, can be (contingently) decided.
Such an argument will not satisfy those ideologues of mass culture whose voices
seemed to grow suddenly louder, more insistent, during the period of writing the first
edition of this book. I am thinking of the British and American media panic about
the threat to high culture’s authority – the debates about dumbing down, ‘political
correctness’ and multiculturalism. The canon is wielded like a knife to cut away at
critical thinking. They dismiss with arrogance what most of us call culture. Saying
popular culture (or more usually, mass culture) and high culture (or more usually,
just culture) is just another way of saying ‘them’ and ‘us’. They speak with the authority
and support of a powerful discourse behind them. Those of us who reject this
discourse, recognizing its thinking and unthinking elitism, find ourselves often with
only the discursive support of the (often equally disabling) ideology of populism. The
task for new pedagogies of popular culture is to find ways of working which do not
fall victim to the disabling tendencies of, on the one hand, a dismissive elitism, and
on the other, a disarming anti-intellectualism. Although this book has not established
any new ways of working, I hope it has at least mapped the existing approaches in
such a way as to help make future discoveries a real possibility for other students of
popular culture.
Further reading
Further reading 235
Storey, John (ed.), Cultural Theory and Popular Culture: A Reader, 4th edition, Harlow:
Pearson Education, 2009. This is the companion volume to this book. It contains
examples of most of the work discussed here. This book and the companion Reader
are supported by an interactive website (www.pearsoned.co.uk/storey). The website
has links to other useful sites and electronic resources.
Bennett, Tony, Culture: A Reformer’s Science, London: Sage, 1998. A collection of essays,
ranging across the recent history and practice of cultural studies, by one of the leading
figures in the field.
During, Simon (ed.), The Cultural Studies Reader, 2nd edn, London: Routledge, 1999. A
good selection of material from many of the leading figures in the field.
Gilroy, Paul, Grossberg, Lawrence, Hall, Stuart (eds), Without Guarantees: In Honour of
Stuart Hall. An excellent collection of essays engaging with the work of Stuart Hall.

236
Chapter 10 The politics of the popular
Gray, Ann and Jim McGuigan (eds), Studying Culture: An Introductory Reader, London:
Edward Arnold, 1993. A good selection of material from many of the leading figures
in the field.
Grossberg, Lawrence, Bringing it all Back Home: Essays on Cultural Studies, Durham,
North Carolina: Duke University Press, 1997. An excellent collection of theoretical
essays by one of the leading figures in cultural studies.
Grossberg, Lawrence, Dancing in Spite of Myself: Essays on Popular Culture, Durham,
North Carolina: Duke University Press, 1997. An excellent collection of essays on
popular culture by one of the leading figures in cultural studies.
Grossberg, Lawrence, Cary Nelson and Paula Treichler (eds), Cultural Studies, London:
Routledge, 1992. The collection consists of forty essays (most followed by discussion).
An excellent introduction to relatively recent debates in cultural studies.
Morley, David and Kuan-Hsing Chen (eds), Stuart Hall: Critical Dialogues in Cultural
Studies, London: Routledge, 1995. This is a brilliant book. It brings together interviews
and essays (on and by Stuart Hall). Together they weave an image of the past,
present and possible future of cultural studies.
Munns, Jessica and Gita Rajan, A Cultural Studies Reader: History, Theory, Practice, New
York: Longman, 1995. Well organized, with a good selection of interesting essays.
Storey, John (ed.), What is Cultural Studies? A Reader, London: Edward Arnold, 1996.
An excellent collection of essays that in different ways attempt to answer the question,
‘What is cultural studies?’

Notes
1. For a discussion of Shakespeare as popular culture in nineteenth-century America, see
Lawrence Levine (1988).
2. Slavoj yizek (1991) identifies the retroactive evaluation which fixed film noir’s current status:
‘It started to exist only when it was discovered by French critics in the ’50s (it is no accident
that even in English, the term used to designate this genre is French: film noir). What was, in
America itself, a series of low-budget B-productions of little critical prestige, was miraculously
transformed, through the intervention of the French gaze, into a sublime object of
art, a kind of film pendant to philosophical existentialism. Directors who had in America the
status of skilled craftsmen, at best, became auteurs, each of them staging in his films a unique
tragic vision of the universe’ (112).
3. For a discussion of opera in popular culture, see Storey, 2002a, 2003 and 2006.
4. See Storey, 2003 and 2005.
5. John Docker (1994) refers to her as ‘an old-style colonialist ethnographer, staring with distaste
at the barbaric ways of strange and unknown people’ (25).
6. It is not just that F.R. Leavis offers us an idealized account of the past, which he does; he actually
idealizes Bourne’s own account, failing to mention his criticisms of rural life.
7. It should be noted, contrary to van den Haag, that Freud is referring to all art, and not just
popular culture.
8. For another excellent example of ‘history from below’, see Chauncey (1994). As Chauncey
explains, ‘As my focus on street-level policing of gender suggests, another of the underlying
arguments of this book is that histories of homosexuality – and sex and sexuality more generally
– have suffered from their overreliance on the discourse of the elite. The most powerful
elements of American society devised the official maps of the culture. . . . While this book
pays those maps their due, it is more interested in reconstructing the maps etched in the city
streets by daily habit, the paths that guided men’s practices even if they were never published
or otherwise formalized. . . . This book seeks to analyze . . . the changing representation of
homosexuality in popular culture and the street-level social practices and dynamics that
shaped the ways homosexually active men were labelled, understood themselves, and interacted
with others’ (26–7).
9. I remember at secondary school a teacher who encouraged us to bring to music lessons our
records by The Beatles, Dylan and The Stones. The class would always end the same way –
he would try to convince us of the fundamental error of our adolescent musical taste.
10. See Storey (1992).
11. See New Left Review (1977).
12. See Stedman Jones (1998).
13. See Storey (1985).
14. ‘We Can Be Together’, from the album Volunteers (1969).
15. See Storey (2009).

238
Notes
16. The film Human Nature presents a very funny staging of this idea. Freud (1985) uses the
volcanic irruption at Pompeii in AD 55 as a means to explain repression and how to undo its
work: ‘There is, in fact, no better analogy for repression, by which something in the mind is
at once made inaccessible and preserved, than burial of the sort to which Pompeii fell a
victim and from which it could emerge once more through the work of spades’ (65).
17. In the original German, ego, super-ego and id are Ich (I), über-Ich (over-I) and es (it).
18. The manner in which Freud discusses the girl’s experience of the Oedipus complex, especially
the language he uses, seems to suggest that a real understanding of the process was not very
important to him.
19. It should also be noted that Freud (1977) believed there were two ways to navigate the
Oedipus complex: ‘positive’, which resulted in heterosexuality, and ‘negative’, which produces
homosexuality. A boy may ‘take the place of his mother and be loved by his father’ (318).
20. ‘As a witty poet remarks so rightly, the mirror would do well to reflect a little more before
returning our image to us’ (Lacan, 1989: 152).
21. For Brechtian aesthetics, see Brecht (1978).
22. Barthes’s ‘Myth today’ and Williams’s ‘The analysis of culture’ are two of the founding texts
of British cultural studies.
23. Barthes’s formulation is remarkably similar to the concept of ‘interpellation’ developed by
Louis Althusser some years later (see discussion in Chapter 4).
24. Myth works in much the same way as Foucault’s concept of power; it is productive (see later
in this chapter).
25. See hyperlink: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/6108496.stm
26. If you enter Jeremy Kyle in the search engine on YouTube you will find Jon Culshaw’s wonderful
parody. Culshaw quite brilliantly captures the agression, the discourse of social class
and the smug self-satisfaction of this type of programme.
27. Mulvey’s essay has been anthologized at least ten times.
28. Based on a diagram in Dyer (1999: 376).
29. Charlotte Lamb, originally in The Guardian, 13 September 1982 (quoted in Coward, 1984: 190).
30. Janice Radway finds this figure implausible.
31. In similar fashion, it may be the case that reading Enid Blyton’s Secret Seven books as a child
– with their imperative of collective action – prepared the ground for my commitment to
socialism as an adult.
32. See Bennett (1983) and Storey (1992).
33. Antony died in December 1999. I knew him both as a teacher and as a colleague. Although
I often disagreed with him, his influence on my work (and on the work of others) has been
considerable.
34. Butler (1999) uses the term ‘heterosexual matrix’ ‘to designate that grid of cultural intelligibility
through which bodies, genders, and desires are naturalized. ...[This is] a hegemonic
discursive/epistemic model of gender intelligibility that assumes that for bodies to cohere
and make sense there must be a stable sex expressed through a stable gender (masculine
expresses male, feminine expresses female) that is oppositionally and hierarchically defined
through the compulsory practice of heterosexuality’ (194).
35. Esther Newton (1999), whose work on drag is used by Butler, makes the point that ‘children
learn sex-role identity before they learn any strictly sexual object choices. In other words,
I think that children learn they are boys or girls before they are made to understand that
boys only love girls and vice versa’ (108). Harold Beaver (1999) writes, ‘What is “natural” is
neither heterosexual nor homosexual desire but simply desire. . . . Desire is like the pull of a
gravitational field, the magnet that draws body to body’ (161).

36. As Newton (1972) explains, ‘if sex-role behaviour can be achieved by the “wrong” sex, it
logically follows that it is in reality also achieved, not inherited, by the “right” sex’ (103).
37. ‘(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman’ was written by Gerry Goffin, Carole King, and
Jerry Wexler. Carole King’s recording of the song is on her album Tapestry. Aretha Franklin’s
version is on her Greatest Hits album.
38. Hume is referring to Francis Williams, who graduated from Cambridge University with a
degree in mathematics.
39. For a fuller version of this argument, see Storey (2002b).
40. The rise of religious fundamentalism is difficult to locate in Lyotard’s postmodern condition.
41. For a critical introduction to the Enlightenment, see Porter (1990).
42. See Ricoeur (1981).
43. In the eighteenth-century opera, pastiche was a very common practice. See Storey (2006).
44. The expansion of the market in DVD ‘box sets’ has undoubtedly contributed to this development.
45. See Easthope (1991), Connor (1992) and the debate on value between Easthope and
Connor in Textual Practice, 4 (3), 1990 and 5 (3), 1991. See also Frow (1995).
46. See Thomkins (1985) and Smith (1988).
47. The Four Tops, ‘It’s The Same Old Song’, Four Tops Motown Greatest Hits, Motown Record
Company.
48. See Storey (2003).
49. What McGuigan calls neo-Gramscian I prefer to call post-Marxist.
50. Operating in a slightly different register, but making the same point, two friends at the university
where I work, who, to be fair, have had to endure much mocking with regard to their
long-term devotion to Doctor Who, have recently shown signs of resentment at the apparent new
popularity of the TV series. It would seem that the new democracy of enjoyment threatens
their, admittedly embattled, ‘ownership’ of all things Doctor Who.
51. Here is an example of the ‘tactics’ of secondary production: Although my parents always
voted for the Labour Party, for many years at elections they invariably voted separately. The
reason is that my father always accepted a lift to the polling station in a large grey Bentley
driven by a Conservative member of the local council. My mother, born and brought up in
a mining village in the Durham coalfield, who had lived through the bitter aftermath of the
General Strike of 1926, refused to even countenance the prospect of riding in a Tory’s Bentley
– ‘I would not be seen dead in that car.’ My father, who had grown up amidst the general
hardship of life in the part of urban Salford depicted so well in Walter Greenwood’s Love on
the Dole, always responded in the same way: he would insist that there was much humour to
be had from being driven by a Tory to vote Labour.
52. Andy Medhurst (1999) describes this way of teaching, quite accurately I think, as the ‘missionary
imposition’ (98).
53. See Storey (1999a).
54. Jenson (1992: 19–20) argues convincingly that it is possible to be a fan of James Joyce in
much the same way as it is possible to be a fan of Barry Manilow.
55. Audiences for classical music and opera had to learn the aesthetic mode of consumption. See
Storey (2006).
56. See Perryman (2009) for a discussion of how Doctor Who fans helped to bring back the programme
to television.
57. For an informed and polemical debate between cultural studies and the political economy
of culture, see Critical Studies in Mass Communication, 12, 1995. See also ‘Part Seven’ of
Cultural Theory and Popular Culture: A Reader, 4th edn, edited by John Storey, Harlow: Pearson
Education, 2009.
Notes 239

240
Notes
58. See Storey (1992).
59. See Storey (1994).
60. The ‘circuit of culture’ model developed by Gay et al. (1997) is undoubtedly a tremendous
contribution to work in post-Marxist cultural studies.
61. Marx (1976a) makes the point that ‘a product only obtains its last finish in consumption.
. . . For example, a dress becomes a real dress only in the act of being worn; a house which
is uninhabited is in fact no real house; in other words, a product, as distinct from a mere
natural object, proves itself as such, becomes a product, only in consumption’ (19). This is
the difference between a book and a text; the first is produced by a publisher, the second is
produced by a reader.

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Index
Adams, William, 178
Adorno, Theodor, 62–7, 69–70
advertisements
Althusserianism, 73–4
art, reproduction of, 65
cars, 73–4
consumption, distinctions based on, 79
ideology, 78–9
interpellation, 78–9
language, debasement of, 24–6
Leavisism, 24–6
mob, 25
music, 12, 65, 66
symptomatic advertising, 72–3
women’s magazines, reading, 154
aesthetics, 219–21
agency and structure, dialectic between, 61
Alloway, Lawrenjce, 183
Althusser, Louis, 4–5, 57, 70–9, 111, 128
Althusserianism, 70–9, 128
American culture see also American westerns
counterculture, 85–6, 184
countercurrents, 207–8
Dallas (television), watching, 147
definition of popular culture, 8–9
dream to be American, 117, 208
imperialism, 147
mass culture, 28–33, 52
monolithic, assumption that American
culture is, 207–8
postmodernism, 204–8
Vietnam war, representations of, 174–7
American Westerns, 115–18
American Dream, 117
binary oppositions, 115–16
classic, vengeance, transition and
professional themes, 115–18
myths, 115–16
narrative functions, 115–16
oppositions, structuring, 116
society and community, 117–18
‘Analysis of Culture’, 44–8, 57
anarchy, popular culture as, 19–22
Ang, Ien, 146–53, 208–9, 215, 234
Apocalypse Now (film), 172, 187
Arnold, Malcolm, 51–2
Arnold, Matthew, 8, 14, 18–23, 27, 44, 48,
62, 63, 70, 81, 183, 201, 214
art
advertisements, 65
mass art, 54
museum art, 219
pop art, 183–4
popular art within popular culture, 53
reproduction, 65
working class, real art and, 183–4
articulation, 84–5, 200–1
audience
commodity, as, 217
fan cultures, 223–6
industrialization and urbanization, 63–4
performer, relationship with, 53–4
politics of the popular, 217, 223–6
producer of meanings and pleasures, as,
217
Austin, JL, 161
authenticity, 8, 12, 62–4, 66–7, 69
authority, collapse of, 23, 26–7
avant-garde, 184
Barbarians, Philistines and Populace,
19–20
Barber, Samuel. Adagio for Strings, 175
Barrett, Michèle, 136
Barthes, Roland, 4, 111, 113, 118–25, 126,
224

254
Index
base/superstructure formulation, 59–61,
70–1, 233
Baudrillard, Jean, 182, 186–91
Beatles (group), 184, 197
Beethoven, Ludwig van, 53, 56
Bell, Daniel, 196
Benjamin, Walter, 62–3, 68, 70, 187
Bennett, Tony, 1, 10–11, 13–14, 27, 65
Bentham, Jeremy, 131–2
Bernstein, JM, 70
Best, Steven, 186
Big Brother (TV show), 132–3
binary oppositions, 115–16, 127–8
biological sex and gender, 160–3
Blake, Peter, 184
Bloch, Joseph, 60
Bourdieu, Pierre, 6, 152, 202–3, 216, 218–20
Bourne, George, 26
Brando, Marlon, 187
Brecht, Bertolt, 4, 63, 107
bricolage, 198–9
British underground scene, 184
Broadhurst, Thomas, 77
Brogan, DW, 31–2
Brooker, Peter, 193–4
Brooker, Will, 193–4
Brooks, Peter, 149
Brundson, Charlotte, 146
Burston, Paul, 160
Bush, George HW, 176–8
Butler, Judith, 160–3
Canaan, Joyce, 159–60
capitalism
American counter-culture, music of, 85–6
articulation, 85–6
consumption, 228–31
feminisms, 135
Frankfurt School, 65, 68, 70
hegemony, 80
mass culture, ideology of, 234
politics of the popular, 216, 228–32
postmodernism, 191, 194, 195–6, 204–5
work and leisure, 65
Carey, James, 2
Caribbean, language and British hegemony in
the, 80
Carlyle, Thomas, 13, 171
Cartland, Barbara, 147, 200
Casualties of War (film), 173
CCTV, 132–3
celebrity surveillance magazines, 133
Centre for Contemporary Cultural Sides, 57
certainties, 190, 192–3, 214–15
Chamberlain, Joseph, 171
Chambers, Iain, 186
Chartism, 18
Chinn, Sarah E, 162
Chodorow, Nancy, 143–5
Christmas, invention of the traditional, 61
cine-psychoanalysis, 104–7
civilization
culture and civilization tradition, 18–35,
37, 70
education, 20
Freudian psychoanalysis, 91
working class culture as anarchy, 20
Clark, Michael, 178
Clarke, Gary, 226
Clash (group), 10, 197
class 19–21 see also working class
common experience of class, 49
definition of popular culture, 6, 13
intellectuals as organizers, 81
mass culture in America, 33
politics of the popular, 218–19, 231
postmodernism, 202–3
residential separation of class, 13
ruling classes, intellectual force of the, 61
segregation, 13, 17
taste, 219
classical music, 55–6, 65, 66
clerisy, notion of the, 21
Coca-Cola, 204
Cocker, Jarvis, 107
Cold War, 33
Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 21
collective dream world, popular culture as,
9
Collins, Jim, 193–4, 198–200
colonialism and imperialism, 76–7, 80–1,
119–22, 168, 170–1
commercial culture, definition of popular
culture as, 6, 8, 9–10
commodities, 64–5, 217, 228–34
communal and self-made entertainment, 40

community
American westerns, 117–18
loss of organic communities, 8, 26–7
sense of community, 39–40
women’s magazines, imagined
communities and, 155
conduct books, 77
conformity, 62, 64
Connor, Steven, 185–6
connotation and denotation, 118–19, 123,
148–9
conscience, 92–3
Conservative Party, 119
consumption
advertisements, 79
capitalism, 228–31
definition of popular culture, 6, 8
economic field, 227
fan cultures, 223
Frankfurt School, 68, 69–70
hegemony, 81–2, 233–4
mass culture, ideology of, 234–5
mythologies, 119
passivity, 88
poaching, 222
politics of the popular, 214–16, 221–3,
227
pop music, 68
production, 232
Queer Theory, 163
Vietnam war, representations of, 176,
178
women’s magazines, reading, 154, 157
youth culture, 81–2
convergence culture, 210–11
Coronation Street (television), 188–9
counterculture, 85–6, 184
Coward, Rosalind, 140–1, 143
Creekmur, Corey K, 163
critical theory, 62
culturalism, 37–58
Culture and Anarchy. Matthew Arnold,
18–20
culture and civilization tradition, 18–35, 70
culture, definition of 1–2, 44–5
culture shock, 87
Curtin, Philip, 171
customs and rituals, 5
Daily Telegraph, 122
Dallas (television), watching, 147–53, 156,
217
American cultural imperialism, 147
denotation and connotation, 148–9
feminism, 147, 152
ideology of mass culture, 149–53
irony, 150–1
melodramatic imagination, 149
pleasure, 147–9, 150–3
populism, ideology of, 151–2
psychoanalysis, 152
realism, 148–9
Dances with Wolves (film), 117–18, 128
Dante Alighieri, 30
David-Neel, Alexandra, 77
de Beauvoir, Simone, 160–1
de Certeau, Michel, 222–4
definition of culture, 44–5
definition of popular culture 1–2, 3–13
democracy, 24, 65
denotation and connotation, 118–19, 123,
148–9
Derrida, Jacques, 126–8
Descartes, Rene, 103
Desert Island Discs, 107
desire, 105, 108–9, 141
Dickens, Charles, 9
différance, 126–7
discipline, social control and, 132
discourse and power, 128–33
discipline, 132
film as an object of study, 129
hierarchical criss-crossing of discourses,
129
knowledge, 128, 130
language, 128–9
panoptic machine, 131–3
post-Marxism, 83–4
sexuality, 129–30
social practices, 129
surveillance, 131–3
truth, 130
Disneyland, 190–1
Disraeli, Benjamin, 18
Dittmar, Linda, 175
diversity, 185
Docker, John, 191
Index 255

256
Index
Doctor Who (television), 210–11, 224–5
Doty, Alexander, 163–4
drag, 162
dreams
American dream, 117, 208
censorship, 84
collective dream world, popular culture as,
9
dream-distortion, 95–6
Freudian psychoanalysis, 93–100
interpretation, 93–100
manifest and latent content, 94–5
sexual symbols, 96
dumbing down, elitism and, 234
Dvorak, Antonin, 65
Dyer, Richard, 68, 138
Dylan, Bob, 184
Eagleton, Terry, 107, 111
Earle, Steve, 187
Easthope, Antony, 159
Eco, Umberto, 200
economy
Althusserianism, 70–1
development, 186
economic determinism, 60–1
economic field, 213–15, 226–32
financial economy, 216–18
hegemony, 232–3
ideological practices, 70
Marxism, 60–1
politics of the popular, 213–15,
226–32
social formation, 70
success and cultural imposition, 204–5
education, 20, 40–1, 51–3, 220–3
ego, 92–3, 102
elite, 13, 21–2, 183, 234
Empire (magazine), 124
employee and employer relationships,
13
Engels, Frederick, 60–1, 196
entertainment, women’s magazines and,
153–4
entrepreneurs, 17
escapism, 137–9, 144–5
Estwick, Samuel, 169
European avant-garde, 184
everyday life
construction of, 12
ideology, 4–5
practices of, 4–5
exclusion and inclusion, 34
Faith, Adam, 52
family history research, 209
fan cultures, 223–6
fantasy, 107–9, 142–4
Fekete, John, 203
femininity, 154
feminisms, 135–7
capitalism, 135
cine-psychoanalysis, 104–7
Dallas (television), watching, 147, 152
dual-systems theory, 135
film studies, 104–7, 137
gender, 135
hegemony, 11
intervention, politics of, 137
masculinities, 159–60
meaning, 136
patriarchy, 135
pleasure, destruction of, 105, 106–7
post-feminism, 155–6
romantic fiction, reading, 140–7
scopophilia (pleasure of looking), 105–7
sexual objectification, 105–6
them and us, politics of, 146
types of feminism, 135
women’s magazines, reading, 153, 155–6
fiction
Leavisism, 24
moral tone, lack of, 42
romantic fiction, reading, 140–7
Fiedler, Leslie, 32–3, 182
film studies, women and, 136–40
consumption, 137, 139–40
escapism, 137–9
feminism, 137
Hollywood stars, alternative femininity of,
139–40
identification, 137, 139
imagined community, 138
patriarchy, 139–40
psychoanalysis, 137, 139, 140
utopian sensibilities, 138

films see also American westerns
Cantonese Kung Fu films, 208–9
cine-psychoanalysis, 104–7
false realism, 193
film noir, 6, 10, 106
Frankfurt School, 62
genericity, 193–4
nostalgia, 192–3
object of study, as, 129
postmodernism, 192–4, 208–9
schizophrenia, 193
Vietnam war, representations of, 173–6,
178
women, 136–40
Fiske, John 8, 12, 189, 215–18, 227
folk culture, 8, 30–1, 40, 53
football, 113–14
foreign, concept of the, 205–7
Foucault, Michel, 111, 128–33, 173
Four Tops (group), 201–2
France
imperialism, 76–7, 119–22
mythologies, 118–25
Frankfurt School
authenticity, 62–4, 66, 69
capitalism, 65, 68, 70
commodification, 64–5
conformity, 62, 64
consumption, 68, 69–70
critical theory, 62
culture and civilization tradition, 70
democratization of culture, 65
Leavisism, 62, 63, 70
Marxism, 62–70
mass culture, culture industry and, 62–5,
68–70
pop music, 65–8
postmodernism, 194–5
production, mode of 68–70
texts and practices, culture of, 68–9
work and leisure under capitalism, 65
Franklin, Aretha, 163
Freud, Sigmund 75, 91–101, 103, 105–8, 190
Freudian psychoanalysis, 91–101, 103,
105–6
civilization, 91
conflict, 93
conscience, 92–3
displacement, 94–5
dreams, interpretation of, 93–100
ego, super-ego and id, 92–3
human nature, 93
language, 96
Oedipus complex, 92–3, 97
pleasure principle and reality principle, 93
psyche, model of the, 91–3
repression, 91, 93
sexual drives, 91
symbolization, 95–6
text analysis, 97–101
unconscious, 91–2, 94–5
Frith, Simon, 8, 68, 69, 188, 211
Fryer, Peter, 169
Gamman, Lorraine, 137
Garnham, Nicholas, 214, 218
Gasset, Ortega Y, 220
gender see also feminisms
film studies, women and, 136–40
Queer Theory, 160–3
Gilroy, Paul, 167–8, 179–80
Gledhill, Christine, 137
global postmodernism, 203–9
golden age, 26
Golding, Peter, 227
Goodwin, Andrew, 197
Gosse, Edmund, 23–4
Gramsci, Antonio, 10, 55, 57, 79–82, 209,
213–14, 233–4
Green, Michael, 57
Greenberg, Clement, 52
Griffin, Christine, 159–60
Grimm, Jacob and Wilhelm, 100
Grossberg, Lawrence, 191, 195, 225–6
Guevara, Che, 65
Gulf War 1991, Vietnam and, 176–7
Haag, Ernest van den, 30–1
Hall, Stuart, 4, 8, 11, 37, 44, 48, 50–6, 57, 70,
83–4, 86–8, 168, 208–9, 232–3
Hamilton, Richard, 184
Harvey, David, 82
Hawkes, Terence, 114
Heart of Darkness, 172
Hebdige, Dick, 14, 81, 181–2
Hegel, GWH, 107
Index 257

258
Index
hegemony
articulation, 11
base-superstructure model, 233
capitalism, 80
class organizers, intellectuals as, 81
commodities, 233
compromise equilibrium, 10–11
consensus, 80
consumption, 81–2, 233–4
definition of popular culture, 10–12
economic conditions, 232–3
feminisms, 11
ideological state apparatuses, 81
intellectuals, social function of organic, 81
language, 80–1
Marxism, 79–82, 84, 87, 232–4
negotiated mix, popular culture as, 80–1
political economy, 232–3
politics of the popular, 214, 216, 227–9,
232–4
post-Marxist cultural studies, 84, 87,
232–4
postmodernism, 209, 233
production, 233–4
repressive state analysis, 81
semiotic use of concept, 12
subordinate groups and classes, concessions
to, 80–1
truth, 87
youth subcultures, 55, 81–2
Hermes, Joke 156–9
heterosexuality, institution of, 161
high culture
definition of popular culture, 6–7, 12
devaluation, 6–7
education, 220
mass culture in America, 30–1
merger with popular culture, 183–4, 194–5,
203
politics of the popular, 220
postmodernism, 12
superiority, 52
what is left over after high culture, pop
culture as, 6
Highsmith, Patricia, 108
Hill Street Blues (television), 217
hip hop, 205–6
history, Marxist conception of, 59–60
Hoggart, Richard, 37, 38–43, 48, 51, 56, 57
homogeneity, 62
hooks, bell, 135–6
Horkheimer, Max, 62, 63–4
Horne, Howard, 188, 211
Hulme, David, 170
Hunt, James, 171
Huyssen, Andreas, 183–4
hyperrealism, 187–91
ideal, 44, 167–8
ideology, 2–5
advertisements, 78–9
Althusserianism, 70–2, 76–9
conflict, 4
definitions, 2–3, 71–2, 78–9
distortions, 3
everyday life, practices of, 4–5
hegemony, 81
ideological forms, 4
Ideological State Apparatuses (ISAs), 78
mass culture, 149–53, 234–5
material practice, ideology as a, 4–5
misrecognition, 79
modification, 76–7
pleasure, 146
politics of the popular, 220
populism, 151–2
practice, as, 71
presentation and figuration, 76–7
race and racism, 168–71
romantic fiction, reading, 145–6
romantic love, 104
social formation, 71
social order, rituals and customs binding
people to, 5
socialism, 4
state apparatuses, 81
structuralism, 9
subordination, 3
taste, 220
truth, 76
unconsciousness of the text, 76
Imaginary, 102, 103–4
imagined communities, women’s magazines
and, 155
imperialism, 76–7, 119–22, 168, 170–2
inclusion and exclusion, 34

industrialization and urbanization, 12–13,
17–18, 21, 26–7, 53–4, 65
intellectuals, 28, 33, 81, 186
irony, 150–1
Jam (group), 10
Jameson, Fredric, 59, 82, 182–3, 191–7, 200
jazz, 55–6
Jeffords, Susan, 174
Jenkins, Henry, 210, 223–5
Jenson, Joli, 223–5
Johnny Guitar (film), 117
Johnson, LB, 177
Johnson, Richard, 37, 51
Johnston, Harry, 171
judgement, absolutist criteria of, 214–15
Kellner, Douglas, 186
Kemp, Fraser, 188
King, Rodney, 187–8
Klein, Michael, 176
knowledge, 18, 22
discourse, 128, 130
Orientalism, 171
power, as, 130
science, 185
sexuality, 130
signification, 124–5
women’s magazines, reading, 158
Knox, Robert, 171
kung fu films, 208–9
LA Law (television), 188
Lacan, Jacques, 101–4, 105, 107–9, 111, 193
Lacanian psychoanalysis, 101–4, 105, 107–9,
111
Lack, Lacanian psychoanalysis and, 101–2
Laclau, Ernesto, 83, 86, 196–7
Lang, Jack, 147
language
advertising, 24–6
Caribbean, British hegemony in the, 80
debasement of language, 24–6
diachronic approach to linguistics, 113
differences, marking, 111–12
discourse and power, 128–9
Freudian psychoanalysis, 96
hegemony, 80–1
langue and parole, 113, 114
Leavisism, 24–6
meaningfulness, 112
Queer Theory, 161–2
reality, 112–13
relational theory, 111–12
signifier and signified, 111
structuralism, 111–14
substitution, 112
synchronic approach to linguistics, 113
syntagmatic axis of language, 112
Lawrence, DH, 39
Leavisism, 22–8, 32, 40, 43–4, 52–3, 56–7
advertising, 24–6
‘Analysis of Culture’, 47–8
authority, collapse of, 23, 26–7
culturalism, 37
democracy, 24
fiction, 24
Frankfurt School, 62, 63, 70
golden age, 26
ideal, 44
industrialization, 26–7
language, 24–5
left-Leavisism, 37
literature, authority of, 27
mass civilization and culture, 24, 27
minority, culture in keeping of, 23–4
organic community, loss of, 26–7
suburbanism, 27
working class, 50
Levi jeans, 10
Lévi-Strauss, Claude, 111, 114–18
Light, Alison, 147–8
lived cultures or practices, 2, 46
locals and dominant culture, 206–8
Long, Edward, 169
Lovell, Terry, 229
Lowenthal, Leo, 62, 63
Lynch, David, 199
Lyotard, Jean-François, 182, 184–6, 190
MacDonald, Dwight, 29–31
Macherey, Pierre, 74–7, 111
magazines
celebrity surveillance, 133
Frankfurt School, 62
women’s magazines, reading, 153–9
Index 259

260
Index
make-over and talk shows, 133
Making of the English Working Class. EP
Thompson, 49–51
Maltby, Richard, 9
Mandel, Ernest, 191
Marcuse, Herbert, 63, 64, 65, 195
Marley, Bob, 85
Marshment, Margaret, 137
Marx, Karl and Marxisms, 3, 50–1, 59–89,
107, 140, 149, 190–7, 229, 232–4
see also post-Marxism and cultural studies
masculinities, 87, 141, 143–5, 159–60
mass culture, 21–2
aesthetic-liberal position, 28
America, in, 28–33, 52
art, 54
capitalism, 65, 234
class, 33
commodities, 234
conformity, 62, 64
consumption, 234–5
corporate-liberal position, 28
definition of popular culture, 6, 8–9, 12
dumbing down, elitism and, 234
films, radio and magazines, 62
folk culture, 30–1
Frankfurt School, 62–5, 68–70
high culture, 30–1
homogeneity, 62
ideology, 149–53, 234–5
impoverishment, 31
intellectuals, 28, 33
Leavisism, 24, 27
pleasure and politics, 234
politics of the popular, 234–5
postmodernism, 196–7
production, 6, 8–9, 12, 234–5
radical or socialist position, 28
reproduction, 68–9
romantic fiction, reading, 140
Soviet Union, 29–30
superior or refined culture, mediocre
culture and brutal culture, 32–3
work and leisure under capitalism, 65
working class, 38–42
Matisse, Henri, 65
McGuigan, Jim, 213–16, 226–7
McLellan, Gregor, 50
McNamara, Robert, 177–8
McRobbie, Angela, 82, 181, 186, 233
meanings, 74, 86–7, 126–7, 136, 217
media ownership, concentration of, 210
Michaud, Gene, 175
milk bars, 42–3
Mills, Sara, 77
mirror stage, psychoanalysis and, 101–2,
105–6
modernism, 182–5, 190, 191, 194, 197–8,
203
Modleski, Tania, 140
Morley, David, 11
morphemes, 114–15
Mouffe, Chantal, 11, 83–4, 86, 196–7
Mulvey, Laura, 104–7, 136–7
Murdock, Graham, 227
music see also pop music
advertisements, 65, 66
classical music, 55–6, 65, 66
folk songs, 40
jazz, 55–6
opera and classical music, 65, 66
music hall, 53, 61
mythemes, 114–15
Mythologies. Roland Barthes, 118–25
myths, 118–25
American Dream, 117
American westerns, 115–16
binary oppositions, 115–16
grammar, 114–15
narrative structure, 115–16
similarity and difference, 115–16
structuralism, 114–16
naïve gaze and pure gaze, 219–20
narcissism, 105–6
narrative and spectacle, moments of, 106
Nixon, Richard, 176–7
Nixon, Sean, 159
nostalgia, 38, 192–3
Nowell-Smith, Geoffrey, 14
O’Connor, Alan, 44
Oedipus complex, 92–3, 97, 103–4, 141–2,
143
opera, 65, 66
organic communities, loss of, 8, 26–7

Orientalism, 171–8
other/otherness, 1, 13–14, 33–5
ownership of media, concentration of, 210
panoptic machine, 131–3
Paris Match (magazine), 119–22
Paris, Texas (film), 104
Parker, Ian, 107
parody, 192
passive listening, promotion of, 67
pastiche, 192–4, 198
patriarchy, 135, 139–40, 144, 145, 153,
160
Pavarotti, Luciano, 6–7, 203
Perryman, Neil, 210–11
phonemes, 114–15
photographs, text accompanying, 122–3
Pieterse, Jan Nederveen, 207–8
Platoon (film), 173, 174–6, 178
pleasure
audience as producer of pleasures, 217
Dallas (television), watching, 147–9,
150–3
destruction of pleasure, 105, 106–7
feminist psychoanalysis, 105, 106–7
Freudian psychoanalysis, 93
ideological function of pleasure, 146
mass culture, ideology of, 234
politics, 234
romantic fiction, reading, 146
scopophilia (pleasure of looking), 105–7
pluralism of value, 201–3
poaching, 222, 225
Polan, Dana, 152–3
politics see also politics of the popular
Althusserianism, 70
definition of popular culture, 10–11
economy, 213–15, 226–33
hegemony, 232–3
mass culture, ideology of, 234
pleasure, 234
psychoanalysis, 105
politics of the popular, 213–36
aesthetics, 219–21
audience, 217, 223–6
capitalism, 216, 228–32
certainties, 214–15
class, 218–19, 231
commodities, 228–32
consumption, 214–16, 221–3, 228–32
cultural field, 216–26
dominant and dominates, 219–20
economic field, 213–15, 226–32
education, 220–3
fan cultures, 223–6
financial economy, 216–18
hegemony, 214, 216, 227–9, 232–4
high culture, education and, 220
influence of culture industries, 232
interpretation, 216
judgement, absolutist criteria of, 214–15
mass culture, ideology of, 234–5
museum art, 219
naïve gaze and pure gaze, 219–20
new revisionism, 216
paradigm crisis in cultural studies,
213–16
poaching 222, 225
political economy of culture, 213–15,
226–32
post-Marxism cultural studies, 232–4
postmodernism, uncertainties of, 214
power, 220, 232
production, 221–2, 224–5, 231
semiotic and social resistance to power,
217–18
taste, 219, 220
texts and practices, access to, 227
textual determinism, 222–4
youth subcultures, 225–6
pop art, 183–4
pop music, 54–7
advertisements, 12, 65, 66
American counterculture, 85–6
authenticity, 67
capitalism, 85–6
classical music, 55–6
consumption, 68
Frankfurt School, 65–8
gay consumption of disco, 68
hip hop, 205–6
jazz, 55–6
modernism, 197–8
passive listening, promotion of, 67
pop art, 184
post-Marxist cultural studies, 85–6
Index 261

262
Index
pop music (continued)
postmodernism, 184, 197–8, 205–6
profits, lack of, 68
pseudo-individualization, 67–8
Rastafarian reggae music 85
sampling, 197
social cement, as, 67, 68
standardisation, 65–8
teenagers, 54–5
value and evaluation, problems of 54–6
working class culture, 41–2
Popular Arts. Stuart Hall and Paddy Whannel,
51–6
popular of popular culture, 6
populism, 151–2
Porter, Cole, 53
post-Marxism and cultural studies, 82–8,
232–4
postmodernism, 181–212
1960s, in the, 182–4
affirmative culture, 195–6
American counterculture, 184
Americanisation of culture, 204–8
articulation, 84–5
British underground scene, 184
capitalism, 191, 194, 195–6, 204–5
certainty, collapse of, 190, 192–3, 214
class, 202–3
convergence culture, 210–11
cultural diversity, 185
definition, 12
dominant and subordinate groups,
202–3
economic development, 186
economic success and cultural imposition,
204–5
elitism, revolt against, 183
European avant-garde, 184
family history research, 209
films, 192–4, 208–9
foreign, concept of the, 205–7
Frankfurt School, 194–5
global postmodernism, 203–9
hegemony, 209, 233
high culture and popular culture,
definition of popular culture, 6
merging of, 183–4, 194–5, 203
hip hop, 205–6
historical change, 191–2
hyperrealism, 187–91
inclusion and exclusion, 34
intellectuals, 186
knowledge, status of, 185–6
locals and dominant culture, 206–8
Marxism or neo-Marxism, 191–7
mass culture, 196–7
media,
consumers, 210
convergence culture, 210–11
ownership, concentration of, 210
public and, relationship between, 189
metanarratives, 185, 190
modernism, 182–5, 190, 191, 194, 197–8,
203
monolithic, assumption that American
culture is, 207–8
new modernism, 185
nostalgia, 190, 192, 197
parody, 192
passive consumption, 205
pastiche, as culture of, 192–4, 198
pluralism of value, 201–3
police cars, simulations of, 187–8
politics of the popular, 214
pop art, 183–4
pop music, 184, 197–8, 205–6
power, 201
production, 194, 201, 205
real and imaginary, 187–90
real art, working classes and, 183–4
realism, 191, 193
repetition, 191
representations, 190–1
reproduction, 187
sampling, 197
schizophrenia, 193
science, knowledge and, 185
selective tradition, 201–2
simulacrum, as culture of the, 187
simulation, 187–90
standards, end of, 203
taste, 202–3
technological change, 210
television, 187–9, 198–201
truth, 191
women’s magazines, reading, 156

post-structuralists, 9, 126–34
binary opposition, 127–8
black and white, 127
deconstruction, 128
difference, 126–7
meaning, 126–7
nature and culture, 127–8
power, 127
signification, 2, 126–7
supplementarity, 127–8
writing and speech, 127–8
power
discourse, 128–33
franchise, 20
industrialization and urbanization, 17
knowledge, 130
normalization, 132
Orientalism, 172
panoptic machine, 131–3
people, popular culture as originating from
the, 11
politics of the popular, 217–18, 220, 232
post-Marxist cultural studies, 87
postmodernism, 201
post-structuralists, 127
reality, 130
resistance, 130
semiotic and social resistance to power,
217–18
primitive societies, culture of, 114–15
problem pages in women’s magazines, 155
problematics, 72–4, 128
production
consumption, 232
fan cultures, 224–5
Frankfurt School, 68–70
hegemony, 233–4
Marxism, 59–61
mass culture, ideology of, 234–5
modes of production, 59–61, 68–70
politics of the popular, 221–2, 224–5, 231
post-Marxist cultural studies, 88
postmodernism, 194, 201, 205
psyche, model of the, 91–3
psychoanalysis 91–109 see also Freudian
psychoanalysis
cine-psychoanalysis, 104–7, 137, 139, 140
Dallas (television), watching, 152
fantasy, 107
Lacanian psychoanalysis, 101–4, 105,
107–9, 111
women, film studies and, 137, 139, 140
Puccini, Giacomo, 6–7
Queer Theory, 160–4
biological sex and gender, 160–3
consumption, 163
drag, 162
heterosexuality, institution of, 161
queer space, 164
race and racism, 167–80
anti-racism and cultural studies, 179–80
colonialism and imperialism, 168, 170–1
history of race and racism in the West,
168–71
idealism, 167–8
ideology of racism, 168–71
Orientalism, 171–8
slavery and slave trade, 168–71
radicalism, 13–14, 17–18, 28
radio, 62
Radway, Janice, 142–7
Rakow, Lana, 136
Rambo films, 173, 174, 190, 217
Rastafarian reggae music, 85
reading
advertising, 72–3
Althusserianism, 72–6
decentred, literary texts as, 74–5
definition of popular culture, 9
latent text, 72–3
multiplicity of texts, 74
poaching, as, 222
problematic, 72–4
romantic fiction, reading, 140–7
unconsciousness of text, 75–7
women’s magazines, 153–9
Reagan, Ronald, 177
realism and reality
Dallas (television), watching, 148–9
emotional realism, 148–9
films, false realism of, 193
Freudian psychoanalysis, 93
language, 112–13
postmodernism, 187–90, 191, 193
Index 263

264
Index
realism and reality (continued)
Real, Lacanian psychoanalysis and, 101–4,
107–8
structuralism, 112–13
working class and real art, 183–4
repression, 81, 91, 93, 129–30
reproduction, 68–9, 187
Richards, Keith, 85–6
Richardson, Colin, 160
Ricoeur, Paul, 190
rituals and customs, 5
Ritzer, George, 207
Rockwell, John, 184
Rolling Stones (group), 197
romantic fiction, reading, 140–7
emotional reproduction, 144–5
escape, 144–5
feminism, 140–7
ideology, 145–6
mass culture, 140
Oedipal drama, 141–2, 143
patriarchy, 144, 145
pleasure, ideological function of, 146
reciprocation fantasies, 142–3
regression, 143
sexual desire as male, 141
sexuality, fear of awakened, 143–4
them and us, feminist politics of, 146
utopian protest, as, 145
violence, fear of male, 143–4, 145
romantic love, ideology of, 104
Rosenberg, Bernard, 29
Ross, Andrew, 9, 28, 33
Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 127–8
Said, Edward, 171–2, 208
sampling in pop music, 197
Saussure, Ferdinand de, 111–15, 118, 126
Scattergood, John, 170
Schiller, Herbert, 204–5
schizophrenia, postmodernism and, 193
Schwenger, Peter, 159
science, knowledge and, 185
scopophilia (pleasure of looking), 105–7
seaside holidays, 10
segregation of classes, 13, 17
self-made entertainment, 40
semiology, 118, 122, 217–18
sexuality
discourse, 129–30
drives, 91
fear of awakened sexuality, 143–4
male, sexual desire as being, 141
objectification, 105–6
romantic fiction, reading, 143–4
Shakespeare, William, 6, 26, 29, 56
Shane (film), 116
Sharp, Cecil, 40
Shils, Edward, 31–3
scholarship pupils, 40–1
Showalter, Elaine, 135–6
signification, 2, 86–7, 111, 118–25
Simpson, OJ, 189
simulacrum, 187
simulation, 187–90
slavery and slave trade, 168–71
Smith, Adam, 72
social definition of culture, 46, 57
social order, rituals and customs binding
people to, 5
socialism, 4, 28
Socialist Review (magazine), 121
Socialist Worker, 122
Sontag, Susan, 182, 203
Sophocles, 97
Soviet Union, 29–30
Spare Rib (magazine), 153, 154
Stacey, Jackie, 137–40
standardization, pop music and, 65–8
Star Wars (film), 192
structuralism, 111–26 see also poststructuralists,
American Westerns, 115–18
ideology, 9
Lacanian psychoanalysis, 101
language, 111–14
mythemes, morphemes and phonemes,
114–15
myths, 114–17
primitive societies, culture of, 114–15
reality, 112–13
signifying practices, culture as, 2
texts and practices, underlying relations of
113–14
subordination, 3, 11, 80–1
suburbanism, 27

superior or refined culture, 32–3
surveillance, 131–3
survival manuals, women’s magazines as, 153
symbols, 95–6, 101–4
Talking Heads (group), 197
Tarantino, Quentin, 193–4
Tarzan, 173
taste
class, 219
definition of popular culture, 6
politics of the popular, 219, 220
postmodernism, 202–3
Taxi Driver (film) 73
technological change, 210
television see also Dallas (television), watching
advertising, songs in, 12
articulation, strategies of, 200–1
Big Brother, 132–3
bricolage, 198–9
Coronation Street, 188–9
Doctor Who, 210–11, 224–5
fan cultures, rewriting of shows by, 224–5
Hill Street Blues (television), 217
hyperrealism, 187–9
LA Law (television), 188
make-over and talk shows, 133
music, 12
oscillation, 199–200
postmodernism, 198–201
surveillance, 133
textual and economic analysis, 199
Twin Peaks, 198–200
telling and showing, difference between, 75
texts
access, 227
analysis, 97–101
decentred, literary text as, 74–5
determinism, 222–4
Frankfurt School, 68–9
Freudian psychoanalysis, 97–101
politics of the popular, 222–4, 227
postmodernism, 199
practices,
culture of, 68–9
underlying relations of, 113–14
structuralism, 113–14
unconsciousness of text, 75–7
Thiknesse, Philip, 169–7
Thomson, Denys, 23–6
Thompson, EP, 17, 37, 49–51, 56, 61
Tomlinson, John, 205
Tong, Rosemary, 135
triumphs over tragedies, 155
truth, 76, 87, 130, 176, 191
Tumin, Melvin, 33
Turner, Graeme, 2
Twin Peaks (television), 198–200
‘two nations’, 18
Uncommon Valor (film), 174
unconscious, 91–2, 94–5
underground scene in Britain, 184
urbanization, 12–13, 17–18, 21, 26–7, 53–4,
65
Uses of Literacy. Richard Hoggart, 37, 38–44
value and evaluation, 51–6, 201–3
Verne, Jules, 76–7
Vietnam war, representations of, 172–8
Americanization of war, 174–7
anti-war movement, 176
betrayal, war as, 173
consumption, 176, 178
feminization of loss, 174
films, 173–6, 178
Gulf War 1991, 176–7
inverted firepower syndrome, 174
representations, 172–7
truth, 176
violence, fear of male, 143–4, 145
Viva (magazine), 147
Volosinov, Valentin, 84–5
Walby, Sylvia, 135
Warhol, Andy, 183–4
Warner Bros, 232
Warner, Michael, 163
Watergate, 190–1
West, Cornel, 197–8
Whannel, Paddy, 37, 51–6
White, Charles, 169
White, David Manning, 29, 30
Williams, Raymond, 1–2, 5, 11, 12–13, 27,
37, 44–8, 56, 57, 86, 183, 191–2, 201,
218
Index 265

266
Index
Williamson, Judith, 78
Willis, Paul, 215–16, 220–1, 227–9, 231
Willis, Susan, 69
Winship, Janice, 153–6
Woman’s Own (magazine), 153–4, 155–6
women’s magazines, reading, 153–9
advertisements, 154
advice, 153–4
consumption, 154, 157
empowerment, 159
entertainment, 153–4
femininity, 154
feminism, 153, 155–6
fictional collectivities, 154–5
imagined communities, 155
individual solutions, 154–5
patriarchy, 153
post-feminism, 155–6
postmodernism, 156
practical knowledge, repertoire of, 158
problem page, 155
relaxation, 157–8
repertoires, 157–9
survival manuals, 153
triumphs over tragedies, 155
working class, 38–43
‘Analysis of Culture’, 47–8
anarchy, 19–22
civilization, 20
common experience of class, 49
communal and self-made entertainment,
40
community, sense of, 39–40
education, 20
lived culture, 19–22
formation of working class, 49
historical phenomenon, working class as a,
49
history from below, 49–50
Leavisism, 50
Making of the English Working Class. EP
Thompson, 49–51
mass culture, 38–42
nostalgia, 38
pop songs, 41–2
real art, 183–4
scholarship pupils, 40–1
segregation, 13, 17
Wright, Will 114–18, 128
Young, GM, 50
youth culture
consumption, 81–2
hegemony, 55, 81–2
politics of the popular, 225–6
pop songs, 54–5
yizek, Slavoj, 79, 107–9